


Just Hold on, it Won't be Long

by ThePerk42



Series: The Golden Spiral Universe [3]
Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Anxiety, Babies, Blood, Canon Disabled Character, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, F/M, Flashbacks, Hospitals, Katniss kind of does, Nightmares, PTSD, Panem recovers, Pregnancy, References to Depression, References to War, References to canonical violence, Sex, Therapy, growing back together, toastbabies - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23813428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePerk42/pseuds/ThePerk42
Summary: A story to follow "Golden Spiral", this story explores some more "in between the scenes moments" of Katniss' and Peeta's relationship, starting immediately after Peeta returns to District 12 and for many years to follow. From both Katniss' and Peeta's perspective, see their time together change the shape of their affection for one another and those around them.Your enjoyment of this story won't be reliant on you reading Golden Spiral, but it will certainly be enhanced. ;)
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark
Series: The Golden Spiral Universe [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690738
Comments: 52
Kudos: 138





	1. And so we arrive to the place we have known.

**Author's Note:**

> When I originally wrote Golden Spiral, a few folks said they would like to see more tid-bits of story in the times in between the chapters of that fanfiction. Well, it took me four years, but here are some additional snapshots of Katniss and Peeta from the that world. This story will be told from both character's POV, alternating with each chapter. I truly hope you enjoy this. <3

When I step off of the train and onto the hard packed earth of District 12, approximately 85% of my senses are _screaming_ at me to get back on the train. It doesn’t matter where it’s going, as long as it’s taking me away from here. But instead of listening to my instincts, I tighten my grip on the handle of my unnecessary suitcase, empty of anything I took with me to the Quarter Quell so long ago. All it has inside of it is some of the art supplies I used in the hospital while under Dr. Aurelias’ care. The good doctor’s message for Katniss clangs around in my mind with all of the other anxieties I tried to ignore on the train ride here. What will Katniss think of me when I show up? Will she talk to me? Will I be able to talk to her? What is the Victor’s Village like now? I’ve been told that my parent’s home and the bakery were destroyed, but my barely-lived-in-house that is across the street from Katniss’ stands waiting and ready for me. What should I say to Katniss when she sees me? “Sorry” doesn’t seem to cover the fact that I kept her from killing herself when that seemed to be her most desperate wish. “I missed you,” would likely outrage her and won’t do any justice whatsoever to the current state of our relationship (if you can call what Katniss and I have “a relationship”).

I don’t want to spend any more time imagining what could happen, so I distract myself by tightening my hand around my suitcase handle one more time, swallow the fear that’s formed a lump in my throat, and follow the familiar path home.

My worries about running into Katniss seem to be unfounded as I soon find myself at my front door, staring in through the glazed piece of glass. I know it is dark and dusty inside, and, having not seen anyone on the way here, I feel even more alone at the prospect of facing the interior. It was eerie, walking through the District which had once been at least busy, if not bustling, and not to have seen a soul. I suck in a deep breath and push open the front door – it’s not even locked. Stepping inside, I set down my suitcase and look around at the surfaces, untouched since Katniss and I left so long ago. I close the front door behind me, lean back against it with a sigh, and wonder what I’m going to do now. My anxiety about my first meeting with Katniss won’t leave me alone no matter how much I try to ignore it and it’s making my head ache. I know I have to do something to drive the thoughts of her from my mind before they coalesce into some sort of episode.

I push away from the door and click on the light in the entry way, only partially expecting it to work. When it flickers on, casting a warm yellow light in the room, I quickly turn it back off. Nobody saw me walking home, but they would certainly notice a light on in the house, and I’m not sure if I’m prepared for anyone to know that I’m home just yet. I know that Haymitch is probably aware, as Dr. Aurelias would have been in contact with him to ensure that my house was ready for my return, but Haymitch is so drunk all the time, he likely doesn’t even remember where _he_ is.

I walk over to the phone alcove, which is receiving some light from the setting sun outside, and dial the number that I’ve been repeating mentally since I left the Capitol. The phone rings once, twice, three times. “Dr. Aurelias’ office,” the receptionist says. I recognize her voice, but can’t recall her name right now. I press my palm to the shiny, white paint in front of me and draw in a slow breath.

“Is Dr. Aurelias available?” I ask, my voice wavering even though it’s probably the steadiest thing about me right now.

“He’s in session right now. Can I take a message?”

“Yes, please,” I say. My mouth feels dry. “Can you let him know that Peeta Mellark made it h –“ I cut myself off, unsure of what I’m saying and take a deep breath. “Back to District 12?” I almost said home, but the word felt vacant and hollow in my mouth.

“Oh, of course Mr. Mellark. I trust your journey went well?”

“Mmm…” I hum noncommittally. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem. Have a good day sir.”

I hang up the phone. The doctor’s receptionist is far too chipper for that line of work. Then again, it could all be an act – I know all about creating facades, so I can’t really judge her if that is the case.

As the sun sets and the main floor darkens, I gradually find the energy to climb the stairs to my bedroom. It’s hot from the unseasonably warm weather and stuffy from months of closed windows. For some reason, it makes me feel irrevocably sad, like I will never feel happy again. Maybe that’s the case. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand and walk over the window so that I can open it and let some fresh air in. If my family had just stayed here, they could have opened the windows in my absence and it wouldn’t feel so stuffy. If they had just stayed here, they wouldn’t be _dead_. If they were alive, though, they would be here to witness this sham of a fucking life that I’m living. Maybe, I think, sliding down the wall next to the window, it’s best that aren’t alive to see what a broken man I am. At the very thought, my guts twist with the agony of shame and I push myself off the ground and stare out the window, across the street at Katniss’ home. No lights on there, either.

I have to swallow down my heartache so that I can finally move again, undressing before I climb into bed. I’m so exhausted, not having physically exerted any energy, but so emotionally spent that I’m asleep almost as soon as my head hits the pillow. I haven’t been asleep for long, though, when I’m woken by the familiar screams from Katniss, stuck in the throes of her nightmares. So it seems that she has not been able to use this time to heal herself, either. I’m not surprised; even after months of personal session with the doctor, I’m still messed up and she won’t even pick up the damn phone to talk to him.

Her screams are growing louder as she is pulled deeper into the clutches of her nightmare, I know the sound. She’s awakening something deep inside of me, a feeling that has been just a distant memory for so long. Laying in the dark, listening to her, clenching my blanket in fists and staring at the ceiling, I feel, for the first time in a long time, genuine concern for Katniss Everdeen. Suddenly, I long to run over to her house, ache to wrap her in my arms and comfort her as I used to do almost every night. I know that I could be the one to bring her peace. I know because I have a plethora of non-shiny memories of the nights I spent in her bed, holding her, comforting her. Memories that were never touched by any tracker-jacker venom because they are mine and mine alone.

But I know that running over there in the middle of the night isn’t the best way for me to announce my arrival back to the 12. So instead, I lay here and listen to her screams rise and fall, eventually silencing (likely when she finally woke up), and try to focus on the growing sense of affection I feel for her. I’m going to need to rely on this feeling when I see her for the first time – it’s the only thing that will help me avoid an episode that could result in injury to both of us.

The phone is ringing when I wake up. I don’t even remember falling asleep again, but I must have. I stumble out of bed and race downstairs, almost tripping the dark so that I can answer before the person on the other end hangs up. “Hello?”

“Peeta, it’s Dr. Aurelias calling. I’m sorry for the earliness of the hour.”

I have no clue what time it is, but I’m trying to focus on the call. “That’s okay,” I say. I wait.

“I’m glad that you called after you arrived in District 12. You must have a lot on your mind right now. Would you like to discuss something in particular?”

The words slip out before I even have time to plan them. “I heard Katniss screaming last night. A nightmare.”

“Ah,” I can hear the scratching of a pen on paper. “That must have been very disturbing for you.”

“No,” I say. I feel my heartbeat speed up. “I mean, yes, it was disturbing to hear her suffering and to feel like I couldn’t do anything about it, but it made me remember…”

“Yes?”

“Before the Quarter Quell, it made me remember when Katniss and I would travel together and would sleep in her bed. I used to comfort her when she had nightmares.”

“Hmmm…”Dr. Aurelias hums. “No footage of that?”

“No.”

“And then what happened?” he presses when I don’t go on.

“I felt…affection for her. It’s not quite…not what I know I felt once, but like a shadow. Like…I need to turn a light on and it will be there. You know?”

“That’s interesting Peeta. What do you plan to do with these rekindled feelings of affection that you have for Katniss?”

“I saw some evening primroses when I was walking…home…yesterday. I’d like to dig some up and plant them around her house as a way to…memorialize Prim.” I didn’t know I had that idea until the words came out. But I like it, and I mean it.

“And how do you think that will make Katniss feel?”

I think for a moment. “Sad, at first. And maybe angry, too, to be reminded of Prim. But eventually she will appreciate it. And it’s a way for me to say I am sorry, and sad for her. And to show her that I still…still care.”

“If you think that’s the right choice –“

“I do.” I sigh. It’s maybe the only thing in the world that I feel sure of right now.

“Okay Peeta. Thank you for your time. I have to go now. Please remember my message for Katniss. I’ll talk to you on Tuesday.”

“Thanks.”

I go back upstairs, but I know I won’t be able to sleep. So instead of crawling back into bed, I get dressed in jeans and t-shirt. It will be cool outside, but digging up the flowers will warm me up in no time. I leave the house through the back door, just in case anyone is watching, and grab a wheelbarrow and trowel from a lot on the way to the woods, promising the absent crew that I’ll bring them back soon. There’s enough light, with the dawn of the new day, for me to see the bushes as I dig the metal shovel into the dirt, freeing them slowly and cautiously from their homes. I’m not a gardener by nature or by nurture, but I learned a few things about unearthing plants in my training for the Games. Once the bushes are freed, I load them carefully into the wheelbarrow, one by one, and head to Katniss’ house as the sky starts to turn the perfect colour of orange.

I park the wheelbarrow and get to work, digging up the soil near the front porch. If there were ever plants here, they are long dead. I work methodically, digging a hole, placing a plant, packing the soil, and then doing it again. The dirt sticks under my nails, to my sweaty skin, and on my clothes where I’m kneeling on the ground. It feels good, cathartic, to do something physical, valuable, and productive. Something comes alive in me as I continue the work. Time passes, though I’m not sure of how much, and I hear the front door of Katniss’ house open.

When I look up at her, I try not to stare but it’s difficult. Katniss is…not well. She’s as thin as I’ve ever seen her, body shrouded in her too large sleep clothes. Her eyes are bloodshot and her skin is unhealed from the extensive burns, or rather, uncared for as it heals. Her hair is an unfamiliar mess on her head, but I can still feel fondness growing deeper roots inside of me as I look at her.

“You’re back,” she say abruptly. That hasn’t changed, then.

I nod slightly. “Dr. Aurelias wouldn’t let me leave the Capitol until yesterday.” I remember the message I am meant to deliver. “By the way, he said to tell you he can’t keep pretending he’s treating you forever. You have to pick up the phone.”

Katniss considers me for a moment. When she doesn’t speak, I start to worry. Is she mad about the primroses? Have I ruined it already? She moves some of the greasy hair out of her eyes. “What are you doing?”

I sigh in relief. She sounds defensive, but not overly angry. “I went to the woods this morning and dug these up. For her. I thought we could plant them along the side of the house.”

Katniss stares for another moment, and her eyes cloud with anger. She looks like she might yell at me, a hot energy rising in her. But then, just as suddenly, the anger is replaced by what looks like glassy eyed grief. She offers me a clipped nod and turns on her heel to go inside. I can hear the lock turn in the door, and sigh, swallowing all of the tension that was building in me during our emotional standoff. I return to my task and can hear Katniss thumping about inside. Opening windows, running water, perhaps taking her first shower in weeks. I finish up just a Greasy Sae is arriving. She looks at me with something akin to pity when she tests the front door and finds it locked. “Come back tomorrow,” she tells me. “Bring some of your bread.”

I nod and rise from the ground, brushing off my hands. I walk the wheelbarrow back to the lot where I found it, glad to see it hasn’t been missed as the crew hasn’t started working yet. After that, I go back home where I can now turn on the light. I feel somehow calmer and at the same time, more anxious now that I’ve seen Katniss. The affection that is growing in me is quickly replacing any lingering Capitol-manufactured loathing, and that is a pleasant and scary experience. I can’t seem to sift through my feelings effectively, so instead I shower and dress, then head down to the kitchen. I need to see if I have the ingredients in my pantry for bread.


	2. Unexpected changes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss needs to ask Peeta a question, but she’s having difficulty figuring out how to say it...

It takes some time, but eventually I’m grow to be somewhat comfortable with Peeta’s presence in my house. As my hair grows back and my scars fade (even if only a little), I feel less and less like I need to defend myself against him and more like he’s become an obliging visitor in my life. We spend less and less time at Peeta’s house now, to the point that if feels selfish to keep the home for him when so many others are living in temporary housing while the District is rebuilt. It’s hard to make any sort of argument in my own mind for him to keep his house when we are at mine so often. The only real reason he needs to go home is when I need some space from him (which I admit, happens more often than I’m proud of). But when that happens, Peeta could give me space here, as well. He could go bake or paint or simply exist in another room - my house is large and spacious – there’s no reason why we both can’t have our own space living in this one house. The issue, though, I realize while I watch Peeta shoo a goose off of the front porch before coming inside with a basket of rolls, is that I don’t know how to tell Peeta any of this.

I stay sitting on the window seat when he comes into the house, toeing off his shoes at the door. He’s freshly showered, dressed in nice pants and a button down shirt. His hair is still damp and he smiles at me while he sets the bread down on the side table before coming to sit with me. I am trying not to show my embarrassment at the fact that I’m still wearing my pyjamas and my hair is sleep messed from the night before. It’s not like Peeta didn’t see me looking this way when he left in the morning, but I’m still unnerved by how put together he is in comparison.

He wraps an arm around me and kisses me on the lips. He tastes like toothpaste. “Good morning,” he tells me. I pick at the hem of my sleep shorts and think. What if I invite him to live here and he says no? Or worse, what if he _wants_ to say no, but says yes anyways? “Hey,” he asks, sounding concerned now. “Everything okay?” The smile slides off of his face as he considers me and is slowly replaced by an expression that I’ve come to realize is just for me: concern, fear, and exhaustion all at once. I hate that I make him feel this way, but he knows me better than anyone else in the whole world, now, so it makes sense. I’m sure I stir those feelings up in everyone who takes the time to get to know me. I can’t bear to ask him now, if he will move in with me, not when the stark contrast between his goodness and my…lack of value is so obvious. I need to at least give myself a half-chance of being successful, so I force a half-smile, knowing it won’t fool him but it will show him I’m not quite ready to open up about whatever is bothering me yet.

“Everything’s fine,” I tell him. “I have some eggs we can eat for breakfast.”

He makes the concerned-scared-exhausted face for another moment before shifting to a frown. “Okay,” he says, squeezing my shoulder for emphasis, “let’s go eat.”

While I’m prepping the eggs, Peeta fills a glass with water from the tap and sets it on the counter. Then he goes to a cabinet and pulls out a number of pills before handing them to me. I drop the whisk into the bowl and look at the four oddly shaped pills in his outstretched hand. One for hair and skin regrowth, one that is a multi-vitamin supplement, one for my reproductive health (though I still haven’t had a cycle since returning home), and one to keep me from drowning in the depths of my own despair (that one doesn’t work all the time). “What if I’ve already taken them today?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Have you?” We both know the answer before I’ve even responded.

“No,” I mumble, taking the pills and swallowing them at once with a gulp of water. Just one more reason why he should move in, I think, glaring at his knowing smile.

* * *

The weather is still warm, even as winter begins to take over for fall. The days are becoming shorter and the air is crisper in the mornings, but the air in Haymitch’s house is still muggy when I muscle my way through the door. “Haymitch?” I push a pile of fabric out of the way with the toe of my boot, touching as little as possible. “Are you alive?” I shout a bit now, not too worried about any pain my yelling might cause him. Still nothing. I take a tentative step further into the house and blink to adjust to the dim light, wishing I could hold my breath to avoid breathing in the stench of the place. I’m starting to think this is an even worse idea than I originally did, and I’m about to turn tail and run when I hear his familiar grumble from the dining room. I step in further and peer around the wall to see the bulk of him under the table.

“Haymitch?”

“Who else would it be?” He groans as he sits up, hits his head on the underside of the table and lets out a yelp. “What the hell? How did I get here?”

My nostrils flare unintentionally. I’m such an idiot for thinking this drunkard could ever help me with anything. “Just making sure you weren’t dead,” I mutter, turning to leave. I’ll figure this out on my own.

“No you weren’t,” he says. “You only come over here when you want something from me.” He pulls himself up using a chair which topples under his weight and sends him lurching sideways into the wall.

I let out an exasperated sigh. “Just forget it. You’re a mess.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, reaching for me and missing by at least a foot. “Seriously, what is it?” He fixes the chair, sits down on it, and gestures for me to sit on another one. Somehow, I’m shocked when he pulls a flask from his pocket and take a swallow, even though I know nothing should shock me when it comes to Haymitch, not anymore. He looks at me, but I can’t read his expression well in the dark, which might be better for my nerves anyways.

“I want to ask Peeta to move in with me.” I let the statement hang there in the air for a moment before speaking out of nowhere and at the same time as Haymitch. “If you say anything about making babies, I’ll kill you where you sit.”

“Planning on making some mini Mellarks, eh?”

I want to hit him, but refrain for some reason. “Ugh. No. It’s just that…”I’m frustrated, words caught in my throat at the thought of making babies with Peeta. Is that what he will think I want if, _when,_ I invite him to stay for good? If Haymitch has already misread my intent, how can I expect Peeta not to? I get up from the chair, my body feels stiff, my muscles are tight with shame and anger. “Never mind,” I huff, “Forget it. And if you say anything to Peeta, I’ll have one of your geese for supper.” As I’m leaving, Haymitch struggles to stop me, which is a feat in and of itself.

“Hold on, Jesus, can’t take a fucking joke.”

I glare at him, hand on the door knob.

“Just…just ask him. The reason doesn’t matter. You know that boy would do anything for you.

I don’t say anything, but yank the door open and leave. I’m too upset to respond to the wave that Peeta gives me from the goose pen.

At dinner that night, Peeta is quiet and pensive. He moves his food around his plate without eating much. “What’s wrong?” I ask him, trying not to sound sharp. I’m still on edge from my visit from Haymitch this afternoon, but that’s not Peeta’s fault. “I thought you like my turkey pot pie?”

“Hmmm?” Peeta looks up at me and it’s clear that he’s been miles away for some time. “No, no. I mean, yeah. Yes, of course I like it.”

I frown. Usually I’m the flustered one, pulling words out of the air as I search for a response. This isn’t like him. “Then why aren’t you eating?” I ask, tying not to sound wounded.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you something for a while,” he says, thoughtful. “But I don’t want to upset you.”

Fear drops in my stomach like a block of ice as I frantically search my mind for what it could be. Is Peeta leaving? Is there someone else that he’s been waiting to tell me about? Does he want to have sex? Is there an embarrassing, shiny memory that he wants to ask about? Whatever it is, I wish he would just ask me the question so that I can ignore him for the rest of the night, we can both eat in sulky silence and then go to bed so that we can wake up and pretend it never happened. I take a bite of my dinner, trying to seem nonchalant. I’m not even sure if I’ll be able to swallow. “Go ahead and ask.”

Peeta squishes his face nervously and puts both hands on the table. He looks intense.

“You’re making me nervous,” I admit, even though I don’t want to. It’s so uncommon for me to be the one speaking while he stares at me in silence.

“I’ve been thinking,” he finally says, “maybe, if you’re alright with it, I could move into one of the extra rooms over here?” He blinks at me for a short moment, and then adds in a rush, “That was a silly thing to say. Never mind.” He’s blushing just a little, and looks at his food mournfully.

“No,” I say, as soothing as I know how to be with someone who isn’t a child. I reach across the table to grip one of Peeta’s hands. “I think that’s a great idea. Then one of the larger families from town can move into your house.”

Peeta looks up at me, surprised, relieved, hopeful. “Yes,” he almost shouts. “That’s exactly what I was thinking!”

When I was thinking of asking Peeta to move in, I wasn’t necessarily planning on him having his own space, but if he wants it, I can’t really begrudge him that. The only “guest room” left is the one on the main floor and it doesn’t make a lot of sense to put him in that tiny room when my mother’s old room is larger and vacant. I can’t bear the thought of moving anyone in Prim’s room just yet, though. “Let’s bring your things over tomorrow and then we can let the registrar know that your house is available.”

He has a wide grin on his face all through dinner, while we wash the dishes, and as we climb the stairs to go to bed. I decide to shower and get the stink of Haymitch’s house out of my hair before I go to sleep. When I come out of the bathroom, damp and wrapped in a towel, Peeta is already in bed with his prosthetic propped up against the bedside table.

“Can you help me?” I ask him, holding out a pot of the medicated lotion that I’m supposed to be putting on my still healing skin. I’ve never asked him before, but I can’t reach the skin in the middle of my back and it’s very itchy tonight. Also, I feel like this is a way of recognizing the step that we have taken forward, together, in our relationship. Peeta takes the jar from me and stares at it for a moment, unmoving. “I’ve gotten everywhere but my back,” I tell him, feeling simultaneously brave and terrified all at once.

He finally nods at me, so I let out the breath I hadn’t been aware of holding and sit on his side of the bed, just next to him. I loosen my towel, just a little, so that it hangs low on my back. Peeta’s fingers move slowly across my skin, gently massaging and overly cautious. Unintentionally and embarrassingly, I let out a quiet murmur of relief as the constantly itchy skin is finally soothed. When he’s done, Peta continues to trace patterns on my back, almost willing me to sleep. Only when I’m about the drop the towel from my grip does he kiss my shoulder and say “We should get some sleep.”

When we move Peeta’s belongings over, everything goes into his new room. I sit on the bed, freshly cleaned sheets beneath me, and watch him sort his clothing into the dresser that once belonged to my mother. I emptied it out earlier and put all of her clothes in a box that we will take to the registrar for donation later. As Peeta places his socks in a neat row, I wonder how long it will be until all of his clothing is in my bedroom.


	3. If I ever needed you...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss and Peeta receive some mail, and with it comes some unwelcome news.

I shift a parcel under my arm and wipe my nose with my gloved hand. The walk back from the train station isn’t long, but the weather is cold enough that I’m beginning to lose the feeling in my toes and nose. When I get home, snow stuck to my boots, I stamp them off on the front porch before letting myself into the house. The warm air wraps around me like a blanket, and I quickly shut the door to keep it from getting out.

“Peeta?” Katniss’ voice calls from somewhere upstairs.

“It’s me,” I tell her, struggling to get out of my boots without getting snow everywhere. Eventually I just have to give up and accept that there will be some water to mop up. After hanging up my coat and grabbing the parcel from the floor, I head toward to the kitchen table so that I can set it down and open it. Katniss is making soup for lunch and my stomach grumbles loudly at the smell. There’s a fire burning in the hearth and, not for the first time, I am grateful that I get to come home to her and not to an empty house that only has memories of loneliness to keep me warm. “Are you coming down?” I ask her, wondering if I should wait for her to join me before I open the package.

“In a minute!” she yells down, sounding only mildly exasperated.

So I decide to wait, put on a kettle of water for some tea. As warm as the house is, the chill from outside is still getting to me. A memory jolts me, unexpected but welcome. On days like this, when my dad had to venture outside, he would always say he was “frozen to his bones”. I sit at the table and pick through the rest of the mail: a letter for Katniss that looks like it is addressed in her mother’s handwriting, and a letter addressed to “Peeniss”. Regardless of the handwriting, I know _that one_ is from Johanna – I can’t help but grin.

I hear Katniss coming down the stairs, footsteps feather light and swift in her stocking feet. When she enters the kitchen, I can see she’s fresh from a bath, pink skinned and warm. She grins at me, leans down, and kisses my cheek. She’s not usually so openly affectionate, and I find my mind wandering with that kiss to a mental image of Katniss in the bath. Just for a moment, I let it take that journey. Then I clear my throat while she preps mugs for our tea.

“What came?” she asks me, looking poignantly at the large parcel on the table.

“This is from Annie,” I tell her, plucking at the twine that is holding the package closed. “And I think this letter is from your mom.” Katniss makes a face but takes the letter and unceremoniously drops it in the rubbish bin.

As I try to avoid making a face, she notices the envelope from Johanna. “What’s that?”

“This is, I believe, a letter for Johanna.”

“You believe?”

“Do you know anyone else who would address the letter as Peeniss?”

Katniss lets out a burst of noise that could be a laugh or a yelp. She turns bright pink and hastens to pour the water from the kettle into our mugs. I try to use the small moment of privacy to get the smile off my face, but I don’t quite manage it before she turns back around, and I find myself getting glared at. Katniss sets my mug in front of me, perhaps a bit more forcefully than is necessary, and takes a seat at the table across from me, folding her knees under her. “Which should we open first?”

“The parcel.”

So Katniss unties the twine and lets it fall to the table. I open the package slowly – inside the brown paper is something crocheted, a neatly folded letter, and a stack of photos held together with a ribbon. I take out the letter and read it as Katniss unfolds the fabric. “Annie says that she and the baby are doing well, though she still hasn’t thought of a name for him. She needed something to do while nursing him, so she made this blanket for us.” Katniss has unfolded the blanket now. It is as tall as her and wider than she can pull it with her arms fully outstretched. It’s a cream colour with dusty blue and yellow trim.

“It will look nice on the window seat,” Katniss says, running her hands over the yarn. She seems pensive.

“She says that she sent some pictures of the beach, thinking I might find some inspiration for my painting.”

“They’re lovely pictures,” Katniss says absently, even though the stack of photos is still tied up, unseen other than the one on top. She continues to stroke the blanket with a vacant look in her eyes.

I pick up the stack, untie the ribbon, and look through the photos. There are six different photographs of the same spot on the beach at different times of the day and in different seasons. They are lovely and will be fantastic to paint, but I can’t help the concern churning in my gut about Katniss’ sudden shift in her mood. I don’t bother telling her that Annie sends all of her love and still asks for us to visit. Our travel ban…well, Katniss’ travel ban, still hasn’t been lifted and I’m not sure how the sentiment would affect her already strange mood. Instead, I fold the letter back up and place the stack of photos on top. I can take them up to my room later.

“Do you want to open the one from Johanna next?” I ask her. She nods mutely. I read the first sentence to myself, unsure if Johanna’s words are completely offensive, but it seems okay. “She says she still can’t believe we let them shut us up here in District 12…she has a boyfriend…and wants to know when she can come see us.” There were some graphic questions and suggestions about our sex life, as well, but I don’t think Katniss needs that right now.

Katniss looks up at me, mild shock on her face. “She has a boyfriend?” She’s grinning. “Who would be brave enough to date Johanna Mason?”

“Beats me,” I tell her, relieved to see her mood lift. Since she seems to be feeling better, I take the risk and ask, “Katniss, are you sure you don’t want to open the letter from your mother?”

“She doesn’t have anything to say to me that I need to read,” she says sourly, sipping her tea.

“It might be important.”

“You open it then,” she tells me defensively.

I walk over slowly and take it out of the bin, wanting to give her a chance to change her mind. But she doesn’t say anything as I rip the flap of the thick of envelope and pull out the paper. It’s printed, rather than being handwritten.

“What is it?” she asks, her voice quiet.

I’m not sure how to say it without upsetting her, so I just tell her the truth. “It’s a summons. President Paylor wants you to go see Dr. Aurelias in the Capitol for some testing. It’s says it’s the first step in the process of clearing you.”

“Clearing me? What for?” She rises from where she is the table and comes to stand beside me, trying to read the letter. I don’t get a chance to read any more, because she rips the letter out of my hands and crumples the paper in her fist.

“Katniss?” I ask, already sure she won’t reply. She rushes past me, throwing the balled up letter into the still burning fire on her way upstairs. Every muscle in my body is urging me to follow her, but I know that will be unproductive – she walked away from me for a reason. So instead, I gather up the paper packaging from the parcel and throw it into the fire with Katniss’ letter from the President. Then I take both of the letters, the photos, and the two mugs upstairs. I set Katniss’ mug outside her bedroom door, knock, and walk away. I don’t expect her to come and get it, but at least it’s there if she wants it.

That night, after I’ve written out responses to Annie (signed “with love from Katniss and Peeta”) and to Johanna (signed “We’re not called Peeniss”), after I’ve eaten dinner and put the leftovers into cold storage, after I’ve drunk Katniss’ cold tea and washed all of the dishes, I open the door to our bedroom. I undress and take off my prosthetic, climb into bed next to her. She’s still dressed in her day clothes, wrapped in Annie’s blanket, so I put my arms around her as she is. “You asleep?” I ask, my mouth against the soft skin of her ear. She whispers back to me.

“I can’t go back,” she tells me. “Not now, maybe not ever.”

I press a kiss to her temple, tighten my arms around her. “What will happen if you don’t go?”

“I don’t know,” she moans, rolls over to face me. She looks lost and scared, eyes wide and glossy with emotion.

“What did the letter say?”

“I don’t know.”

“We can call Dr. Aurelias in the morning and find out,” I tell her, smoothing her hair. “Maybe you just…don’t go.”

Katniss sucks in a deep breath – the kind you take before plunging into an icy cold body of water or touching something disgusting (although Katniss has never seemed overly perturbed about touching the things that I find disgusting). “If I have to go,” she asks me, words coming out faster than she can form them, “will you come with me?”

“Of course,” I tell her, unthinking. Katniss so rarely asks anything of me, so whatever she does ask for, I will gladly give her. It’s not until later that night, when we’re lying bed, Katniss finally in her bedclothes and the lights off, that I begin to consider the impact that a trip to the Capitol might have on me. The memories that may come back to me, real and not real. But, as Katniss snuggles deeper into my side, I realize that I would have said yes, regardless.

When I wake the next morning, I’m surprised to find myself alone in the bed. There is a warm-ish cup of coffee on the bedside table, which means that Katniss hasn’t been up for too long. I put on my leg and pull on a pair of pants before heading downstairs, coffee in my hand. Katniss is on the phone when I come down, writing something on a piece of paper and sounding annoyed with the person on the other end.

“Yes, I know it was all in the letter. I’m sorry. I just misplaced it. What day did you say?” She scratches another note on the paper and then sets her pen down. “Yes, I’ve got it all. No, I won’ lose it. Thank you for your…” She stops talking abruptly and pulls the receiver away from her face, staring at it.

“Hung up on you?”

“Typical Capitol,” she says, hanging up the phone. I move to kiss her, but she brushes past me. I can’t tell if it’s on purpose or just a result of her being lost in thought. I tell myself not to be hurt.

“What did they say?” I follow her into the living area where she sits on the rocking chair, effectively blocking all physical contact unless I were to kneel in front of her. Not that I’m above it. But I sit on the armchair nearby and drink the lukewarm coffee, wait for Katniss to say something.

“You don’t have to come with me, if you don’t want to,” she finally says, stiff.

“So you do have to go?”

“They said it with far more explanation but…yes.”

“Of course I’m going with you.” There was never a question, but I know Katniss is regretting the vulnerability of asking last night. “When do you have to go?”

She shrugs her shoulder. “A chaperone from the hospital is coming in two days.”

I’m surprised – I didn’t have a chaperone with me when I came back from the Capitol, but then I wasn’t being detained for murder, either – even though I should have been. “Do you know how long we’ll be gone?”

“Five days.”

“We should see if Thom can look in on Haymitch while we’re gone.”

“Hmm.” She nods in agreement and then looks at me seriously. “I mean it. You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to.”

“Katniss, stop, please. Of course I’m coming.”

She nods sullenly and rises from the rocking chair. She doesn’t speak to me for the next two days.

Two days later, our bags are packed and ready to go and Katniss is nervously pacing in the front room. “What do they want?” she keeps asking. I stopped trying to answer her about fifteen minutes ago. I, too, am feeling nervous, my heart pumping a little bit fast than usual in my chest. Even though I don’t have to meet with Dr. Aurelias, a visit to the Capitol is still a frightening prospect. I called the doctor yesterday to talk through my fears about a potential episode. We talked about some helpful grounding practices that I could employ, but it was the doctor’s strongest recommendation that unsettled me the most. “Maybe you shouldn’t come,” he’d said, voicing what I already knew but refused to admit. “Maybe you’re not ready.”

“I have to,” I told him. “Katniss needs me.”

So it is that I am sitting on the window seat, counting my breaths, hoping I can make it through the next five days, and knowing that I must. A loud knock on the front door interrupts my thoughts and catches Katniss mid-question. “That’ll be the chaperone,” I say uselessly. I grab our bags and Katniss stares at the door. I consider sighing, but then remind myself that the fact that Katniss is conscious and (so far) willingly going is a huge win. I shift her bag so that I’m holding both of them in one hand and open the door.

A young man in a muted purple uniform is standing in the doorway, looking as though he was just getting ready to knock again. He clears his throat. “Hello, I’m here to pick up…Katniss Everdeen and…” he looks down at a piece of paper in his hand, “Peeta Mellark?”

“That’s us,” I tell him, trying (and failing) to sound friendly. “Come on, Katniss.” I hold out my hand for her but I’m surprised when she takes it. Katniss closes the door behind us and our chaperone leads the way to the train station.

“I’m Ivan, by the way,” he says, not bothering to turn around. “We’re on the next train, which leaves in about an hour.” The train that we will be taking is nowhere near as luxurious as the train that we rode in for the Hunger Games, for which I am grateful. The ride will take longer, though, as the train will also be stopping in each District to let passengers off and on. A room has been booked for us with our chaperone, thankfully, next door. We’re able to find our rooms before the train departs and I decide to leave Katniss to settle in while I go explore the communal areas of the train.

When I make my way back to our room, Katniss is gone. I must have missed her, wandering about the train, too. With little else to do, I go back to the lounge car, and take a seat, looking out the window as the train starts. It’s been years since I saw the other Districts, and I wasn’t really paying attention last time, so I wonder what they will look like now. What progress has been made and what rubble is left? The train begins to move, silently and slowly at first, but steadily picking up speed. I watch the trees pass by for a while and then close my eyes.

“There you are.” Katniss says as she sits down next to me. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind.” She sounds like she’s only half joking.

“I’d never make you go through this alone,” I tell her, and I mean it. I still feel so much guilt over how long it took me to be well enough to return to 12, how long she was on her own, how difficult her own recovery was for her while I had doctors and nurses supporting me through mine. This is the least I can do.

“I wouldn’t blame you,” she says. I open my eyes and turn to look at her. Her hair has little waves in it and is shining as the sunlight filters through it.

“You look beautiful,” I tell her, without thinking.

She looks at me, confused. But after a moment, she murmurs a thank you.

A server comes over and asks if we’d like a drink. I order a coffee and Katniss orders a hot chocolate. I smile and then frown, something about the hot chocolate feels familiar, but I can’t quite place it so I brush the feeling aside and focus on the present moment: the feeling of the warm cushion beneath me, the smell of Katniss’ soap, the forest zipping by. And then, unbidden, like so many of the other things I say to Katniss, the words just spill out of my mouth. “I’m so sorry, Katniss.” She looks at me, confused. She’s about to say something, likely to ask me what I mean, when our drinks arrive. I thank the server and then look earnestly at Katniss. She needs to know what I mean, even though it’s seemingly out of place. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here, I mean, in District 12 when you first got home.” She tries to say something, to respond, but I barrel on. “I should have been there for you, to help you. You deserved to have someone who…loved you, but you were all alone. I’m sorry it took me so long to come home and I should have said it sooner, but I was…ashamed.” I look at her, to see her tracing the rim of her mug.

“I don’t blame you,” she says, blinking, “It’s not your fault.”

“I should have said something sooner,” I protest, the guilt welling up inside of me all over again, thick and frightening.

“Well…I appreciate that,” she grinds out,” but you don’t have to be sorry. You needed to heal before you were ready to come home.” She looks at my mouth and then my eyes. “Besides,” she tells me, brushing her hair out of her face, “you saw me, I wasn’t really ready for company right way.” I frown at her. “You’re here now,” she says, looking like the words cause her discomfort. “And that’s…that’s what matters.”

We don’t say anything else, but I reach across the table and take her hand. We finish our drinks and then head back to the room, crawling into bed earlier than usual.


	4. ...I need you now.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss can’t face this task alone. Thankfully, she doesn’t have to.

We arrived in the Capitol around 9pm and were taken directly to the hotel in an automatic vehicle. I, personally, would prefer to get the meeting with Aurelias over as soon as possible, but the chaperone, _Ivan_ , keeps reminding me of the fact that his office hours are over and I have an appointment scheduled for tomorrow. Ivan checks us into our hotel room and then walks us to the door. There’s a security guard outside – I’m sure her job is to keep us in rather than to keep other people out. Well, to keep _me_ in. “Treena will be here all night,” Ivan says, in his annoying voice. “Just let her know if you need anything.”

Ivan opens the door with the key card and ushers us into the room. After wishing us a good night, he leaves and closes the door, and I can hear the lock clicking into place. “Guess we’re not going anywhere,” Peeta says. I’m already feeling like a caged animal and have to fight the urge to try the door – it won’t make me feel any better to physically affirm that we are locked in here until the morning.

“Are you hungry?” Peeta asks me. He’s disheveled from the train and looks as exhausted as I feel.

“Not really,” I tell him, not thinking before I speak. “I’m ready for bed.”

“Do you want to watch TV?” he asks, seemingly ignoring my response. I can tell he’s not ready to sleep, but I’m not sure why. Looking around, it takes me a moment to realize how similar this hotel looks to where we stayed the last time we were in the Capitol together. Peeta is probably afraid to move, let alone go to sleep.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, wishing I believed it myself. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

“I know that,” Peeta tells me. Sometimes he can be so stubborn.

“I have to leave early tomorrow,” I tell him, as he turns from me to look out the picture window, down and out at the city. Peeta clenches and unclenches his fists, his back muscles are visibly tight under the thin fabric of his shirt. “Peeta,” I whisper, not on purpose – it just comes out. I tiptoe over to him and wrap myself around him, resting my chin on his shoulder. I can see our reflections in the clean glass of the window. We both look lost, separate from one another in this overly decorated room. I press my chest to his back and he raises a hand to place it over mine. I can feel that he’s taking measured breaths, trying to calm himself. Finally, I think of something. “I have an idea. Why don’t we do something we’ve never done before? Then you’ll know for sure what’s real?”

“What do you want to do?” Peeta asks me. His voice is higher than normal, he sounds desperate for anything that can stop him from spiralling.

“Will you dance with me?”

“We’ve danced before,” he sighs, like he lost his only chance. But he still holds my hand in his on his chest, and I can feel his heart beat, steady beneath my palm. That is a good sign, so I push on.

“But never anywhere like this, right?” I know the answer, but I want him to think about it. “Never like this, where they could have seen.” I know that I don’t have to explain myself. Peeta will know what I mean – that there’s no way they could have shown Peeta a recording of us dancing in a hotel room and destroyed the memory because there is no such recording. His reflection nods slowly at me in the window and then he turns around and takes my hands. There’s no music, but I can sing and Peeta’s told me once or twice that he likes my singing voice. I sing a song that Prim taught me when she was little. It makes me feel happy and sad at the same time. Peeta sways with me and presses our bodies close together.

“The trouble with wantin’ is I want you, the trouble with wantin’ is I want you, the trouble with wantin’ is I want you. I want you, all the time.”

“Me, too,” Peeta whispers in my ear, and then he stops swaying and kisses me, slow and gentle like he’s scared I’ll break; or maybe he’s scared that he will. I wrap an arm around the back of his shoulders and play with the little blond hairs at the nape of his neck – one of my favourite spots on Peeta. He breathes out a sigh against me and smoothes his hands over my waist. There’s a flutter of nervousness and excitement in my chest that I’m trying to ignore because I just want to _be_ in this moment with him. The smell of Peeta – faint through the smell of the soap from the train, but there – comforts me and I want to press our bodies even closer, melting into him from chest to toes.

“Feel better?” I ask, my face pressed against his warm skin.

“Much,” he murmurs, tracing a pattern on my shoulder. “You need to get some sleep, though,” Peeta pulls away and as much as I miss the warmth of him, he’s right. I’m exhausted and if I don’t get some rest my meeting with Aurelias will go sideways tomorrow. While I’m in the bathroom, brushing my teeth and changing, Peeta also changes. When I come out, he’s sitting on the bed, studying the pattern of his sleep pants. “I’m happy I came,” he tells me, not looking at me. “Thank you for letting me do this for you.” Then he gets up and kisses me on his way to the bathroom, leaving me to wonder, not for the first time, how so much goodness can exist in one person.

I climb into the bed and snuggle down under the covers. The pillows feel too soft, but I’ll have Peeta with me soon. Alone, for the moment, I wonder for what feels like the millionth time today what my visit with Aurelias will be like tomorrow. I know that he is meant to interview me and then provide his medical opinion to Paylor regarding whether I’m “stable” enough to be let out District 12 without restrictions. I wonder if he’ll ask if I’ve had any homicidal thoughts? Or maybe when I last contemplated dying by suicide? It’s laughable that such a short time ago I was lauded for being a skilled killer and now I’m “unstable for the very same reason. How quickly the world can change.

Peeta comes out of the bathroom and clicks off the overhead light so that the only source of light comes from the window and the city outside. After taking off his prosthetic, he crawls into bed next to me, grunts, and shuffles around. “These pillows are too soft.”

“That’s why I’ll be sleeping on you,” I tell him. Once he’s settled, I lay down on his chest. “Goodnight, Peeta.”

He pets my hair, the same way he does every night when we go to sleep. “Goodnight, Katniss.”

When I wake up the next morning, he’s sitting up in bed, drinking something out of a mug. “Morning. Tea?” he asks.

I take it from and drink some. It’s easy, in this moment, to enjoy the warmth from the tea and the warmth of Peeta’s body at my side. I roll over and set the mug on the nightstand before turning back to put my hand over his chest, the fabric of his shirt soft against my skin. I’m suddenly overcome with the urge to kiss Peeta. Even though I know I’ll have morning breath, which has always given me anxiety before, I don’t care. Right now, in this moment, I just want to show him how happy I am that he’s here. I crane my head back and awkwardly pull him down to kiss me. “Oh,” he says, in a puff of freshly-brushed-teeth air. I smile at him, knowing I should be embarrassed even though I’m not, and slip my fingers under the hem of his shirt. I’m waiting for some sign of rejection here, a look in his eyes, kind words, or a gentle nudge with his hand, but Peeta is just watching me – waiting. So I run my hand along his skin, soft and riddled with scars, but like velvet where it’s new. His muscles quiver with every breath he takes and he brings a hand up to touch my face.

“Katniss, what’re you...”

Peeta never gets to finish the question. There’s a knock at the door, and Ivan says, “Miss Everdeen, we need to leave in ten minutes.”

Suddenly I snap back and away from Peeta, feeling like Ivan might as well have walked in and caught us in the act. Peeta frowns at the lost contact and I kiss him once more as an apology. He will stay here and I will go to appointment on my own. As frustrating as it may be for him to sit here and wait for me, I just couldn’t handle the idea of putting him through that – sitting in the same waiting room that he became so familiar with years ago, waiting to find out how distant I will be for who knows how long. It just didn’t seem fair. So, Peeta will wait here and we will come and pick him up on our way to the train station after I’m done.

Peeta stays in bed and watches me as I brush my hair and get dressed. I try to tamp down the heat that rises in my cheeks as I think about Peeta in bed, the way he made me feel last night, but the way he’s watching me isn’t helping. When I’m about to leave, he grabs my wrist gently and makes a face. “Katniss, everything’s going to be…well, it’s going to be something you and I get together, whatever it is. Right?”

“Right,” I tell him, worried I’m making a promise I won’t be able to keep.

“I’ll see you soon,” he tells me, pulling me down for a kiss. Ivan lets himself into the room, ever the entitled Capitolite, to collect me. I wish I was still in bed with Peeta, warm, safe, and protected, but instead I have to follow Ivan outside to a vehicle that is cold and unfamiliar. The ride is silent, buildings passing by outside the window, the blur of them making me feel sick. How can people live here, I wonder for what feels like the millionth time, so far away from anything natural? Especially now that movement between Districts is no longer restricted. I try to busy myself by thinking about what Peeta and I will make for dinner tomorrow night, what colour scarf I will knit for Peeta for his birthday. I think about Peeta and how warm he was this morning and what it felt like to dance with him last night. Something in my chest tightens and so I stop thinking altogether.

Finally we arrive and the hospital that houses Aurelias’ office and I’m shown into a small room, a waiting area, with no-one else in it, other than Ivan. Being here, in the Capitol, makes me feel so utterly alone.

“Can I get you something to drink, Miss Everdeen? Tea, coffee, water?”

“No thank you,” I tell Ivan, trying to be polite even though I wish he would stop talking.

“The doctor will be out for you shortly.”

“Okay.” I can’t even look at him, so I look at a spot on the wall, just past his shoulder.

Finally he leaves, disappearing down a side hallway, where he will probably stay until the meeting is over. I am grateful for his absence; his presence makes me feel small, like a child who can’t be trusted to follow the rules without constant supervision. After a moment, Aurelias comes out and greets me like an old friend, even though the warmest emotional response he’s ever elicited from me is begrudging acceptance.

“Good morning Katniss. Thank you so much for coming.”

I don’t say anything, just look at him from my chair. We both know that I didn’t have any say in whether or not I would come here.

“Come on in to my office and we can chat,” he says, like I want to be here. Like I’m the one who asked for this meeting. But follow him I do, even though my feet are arguing with my brain. The sooner this is over, the sooner I can go home and forget it ever happened. His office is large and bright, sparsely decorated. It feels expensive, and I feel like I need to be careful as I sit down in one of the large grey chairs facing Aurelias’ desk. Unbidden, an image comes to mind of Peeta sitting in this very chair, explaining his high-jacking experience to Aurelias. He’s never talked to me about his sessions with Aurelias, so I know the image is entirely of my own creation, but it still makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. How many hours, I wonder, did Peeta spend is this room trying to get better so that he could come back to me? How much pain did he experience just so that he could come home and offer me comfort? I swallow something that feels like guilt and shame and try to focus on Aurelias, who seems to have been saying something.

“Katniss?” he looks concerned.

“Sorry,” I shake my head. “Yes?”

“I was just asking if the travel arrangements that we made were agreeable to you.”

The only way that they could have been better is if we hadn’t had to come. But instead of telling him that, I say, “They were fine, thank you.” The words feel foreign in my mouth.

“That’s good. So let’s get down to business, shall we?”

Finally.

“President Paylor has indicated that your travel ban will be lifted if I conduct an interview with you and present my findings to a review board that deems them satisfactory.”

“You won’t be making the decision?”

“I’m afraid not. I’m too close to you. Best to let an unbiased review panel make the decision.”

I make a noise that I hope sounds agreeable. I get an urge to kick off my shoes and tuck my feet under myself, but instead I cross my legs.

“So I’d like it if we can just talk.”

“We do that on the phone.” I only realize that my response sounds childish after I’ve said it.

But Aurelias laughs. “Yes, we do. However, I find that interacting face to face gives the conversation a very different context. Don’t you?”

I shrug my shoulders. I can honestly say that I’ve never given it much thought.

“First, I’d like you to tell me how things are going. How are you and Peeta settling in to living together?”

“Fine,” I say. But the look in Aurelias’ eyes tells me that answer won’t suffice. “Peeta has pretty much moved into my bedroom by now. We put his house on the list of available homes with the registrar, but so far no-one’s moved in, so it’s just us and Haymitch in the Victor’s Village. Well, and his geese.”

“That must feel isolating.” Aurelias looks down as he writes a note, so he thankfully misses the face that I make.

“No, not really,” I tell him. “I still hunt and go into town and trade with any who’s interested. Peeta takes bread to people almost every day. Johanna and Annie call sometimes, and they write letters.”

“And do you write back?”

“Yes,” I say, then immediately regret the untruth. “Well, no. Peeta writes. But we read the letters together.”

“What about your friends from District 12? From before?”

It feels like ice fills my veins. “They’re all dead,” I tell him coldly.

“Is Gale dead?” Aurelias asks, even though he clearly knows the answer.

“No, of course Gale isn’t dead. I just can’t…I can’t…not now.” Maybe not ever.

“What about your mother? Have you tried talking to her?”

“No. I…I think she’s called a few times and she did write me a letter, but…”

“It might be helpful for your progress if you reached out to her.”

I stare at him and wait for him to say something else.

“You mentioned that you and Peeta are living together.”

“You already knew that.”

“Yes. Can you tell me about you living arrangement? Do you each have a space of your own, should you need it?

And so it continues for the next hour and a half, with Aurelias asking questions and me trying to answer them without being too evasive. And then he thanks me for my time and shows me to the waiting room, where Ivan is prepared to escort me home. We pick Peeta up on the way to the train and he asks a few gentle questions but stops when he realizes I’m not going to answer any of them. So instead, we sit in the lounge car for most of the trip, watching Panem pass us by.

Once we are back in 12, all I want to do is climb into a hole and hide. Ivan waves us off at the train stating, finally leaving us be, and Peeta carries my bag as well as his. When we get inside, he asks if I want something to eat but I don’t think I could keep down a mouthful of water if I tried. So I shake my head and crawl up the stairs, only shoving off my shoes before getting into bed. It’s not quite the hole I am looking for, but it will do. Will it all be worth it? Even if my travel ban is lifted, there’s nowhere I really want to go, so what is the purpose of putting myself through all of this?

Peeta joins me in bed later, laying a few inches away until I scoot across the mattress and attach myself to him. “Want to talk about it?” he asks, lightly scratching my shoulder. I shake my head no. “I get it,” he tells me. “My first few sessions with Dr. Aurelias were awful. It will get better.” I trust him, but I don’t know if I believe him.

I fall into a fitful sleep that night, one of the worst nightmares I’ve ever had. When I wake, shaking and terrified of the visions, covered in icy sweat, Peeta is there to comfort me.


	5. This one’s for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops! I meant to post this yesterday but forgot too. Back on schedule next week. XO

I’m not sure what Katniss’ plan for the future is, or if she’s even ever given it thought. We have lived so much of our lives day by day and moment by moment, just trying to survive. I don’t really have a plan for the future myself, but whenever I imagine it, Katniss is there with me. We spent years apart before the Games brought us together, but these past few years seem to take up so much space in my memory. Sometimes I worry that I’m replacing my memories of my family with my current affection for Katniss. Loving her isn’t easy, it never has been, but at least she is here with me, unlike my family who were absent even before their deaths.

I still think it’s important to remember them, though, to pay homage to the almost two decades that we all spent working in the bakery together. So almost two years after returning to District 12, I finally convince myself to go back to where the bakery was. Up until now, I’ve been baking in Katniss’ – our – kitchen. Thom’s been asking me for a while if I want to come see the progress they’ve been making in town. It’s been slow going, as most of their efforts are focused on the building of the medicine factory and rebuilding homes, but some of them continue to clear away to rubble from the bombings, making way for a new life and Thom is eager for me to take the opportunity to acquire one of the new shops so that I can reopen the bakery when the merchant’s square reopens. But when I think about going, I feel guilt. Guilt about what happened to my family, even though I know, logically, that it’s not my fault; guilt about not helping with the central rebuild, even though Katniss says I do so much more good by helping with people’s homes; guilt about waiting so long to honour my family, which nobody has any excuses for.

Katniss says she will go with me and I’m grateful because I didn’t want to ask but don’t know if I could do it alone. So on a cool morning in March, we dress warmly and walk toward the town center. Thom told me that the largest debris from the bombing had been cleared, but no other work has been done on the side of the square where the bakery was...is...was. They will start on that section tomorrow, so this is my last chance to see the remains of my old life before they are made new again. Katniss holds my hand firmly in hers and offers me what, from her, is a comforting grin. Thom is waiting for us, to show us the way, not that I need guidance. I lived here for almost all of my short life. “Morning,” he says, kindly. I nod at him, words sticking unhelpfully in my throat. The square is full of the debris from the buildings that are being emptied. Half of the lots are flat and vacant, free of anything that they were before. I wonder whose corpses they found when they cleared them out. I shake myself mentally, looking at the other half of the buildings which are going to be cleared over the next week or so.

“Sorry I haven’t been around to help,” I manage. With very few bodies to do the work and many other more pressing demands, it’s no surprise it’s gone so slowly.

“You’re helping with the housing and the food,” Thom says, looking only slightly uncomfortable. I appreciate that he’s trying. “Here it is,” he says, gesturing to one of the now non-descript piles of rubble. “Let me know if you need anything.” I’m not sure where Thom goes, but I’m grateful for the privacy because I’m not sure how much longer I can keep from crying.

Katniss squeezes my hand. “Peeta…” her voice is so gentle and unfamiliar that it almost breaks me.

The bombs that they dropped exploded everything so thoroughly that I can’t quite make out where the front door was. But I walk through the wreckage towards what I once knew as the back of the bakery and find our industrial ovens still standing. There’s no way they’d still work, but they are the only point of reference left to me – likely too heavy for the crew to move without equipment or more man power. I’m focused on the space around me and don’t feel myself falling but somehow I’m suddenly on my knees in the ash. I haven’t given myself much time to really consider my family members’ deaths until just now, and the heaviness hits me in a way I didn’t expect. We may not have been close in the way that Katniss was to Prim, but I still loved them.

I am crying without having made the decision to do so. Katniss stands near me, her hands twisting, likely unsure of how to react. “Katniss,” I manage to get her name out between huffing breaths. I start to rise shakily from my knees, but stumble over my stupid prosthetic. “I need…” I don’t know what I need, but it seems that she does. Katniss comes closer to me and softly presses my face to her thigh, running her fingers along my shoulders.

“I know,” she tells me. And I realize that she really _does_ know. While I was in the Capitol, she was one of the first to see this devastation of our empty District in person. I wonder, for a moment, if she went back to her old home, where her family lived before. I won’t ask her, but I think I know the answer anyways.

“We should see if we can find something,” she says, so quietly that I almost don’t hear her.

“Hmm?” I sniffle and wipe the tears from eyes, ruefully leaning back from the comfort and warmth she offers, feeling weak but grateful.

“Something for you take. To remember, when you want to.”

I stat to rise, clumsily getting to my feet and wrap an arm around her shoulders. What is there to find here? Nothing is left but rubble and ash. And two hulking, but non-working, commercial ovens.

“Like my dad’s hunting jacket,” she explains, thinking I didn’t understand.

“What would we…”I trail off. I feel confused and out of sorts. I’m out of my depth, here.

“There must be something,” she says. “Let’s look.” And then she starts to shift pieces of drywall and planks of wood, toeing piles of ash out of the way. I stare at her, useless, but she either doesn’t notice or care about my lack of assistance. I can’t bring myself to dig through what, to me, represents my family’s grave. What if I find something I don’t want to? I blink to rid my mind of the visual of pulling an arm out of the mess and try to focus on Katniss as she brushes her hair out of her face, smudging her skin with soot. Unbidden, memories flash through my mind on a loop. I used to work in this kitchen with my father and my brothers. We used to close up shop early once a month and sit at the table and play cards when my mom would stay at her sister’s overnight. Other nights, my brothers and I would walk up the rickety stairs at the end of the day and sleep in the converted storeroom and listen to my parents argue. I pinch the bridge of my nose and watch Katniss as she moves.

“What about this?” she ask, turning around to face me. In her hand is a filthy, blackened, but still whole, metal cookie cutter. It’s shaped like a basket – my father used to decorate them like picnic baskets and top them with the first fruit of the season. Sometimes, he would let me have one on my birthday. I let out a sound – half laugh, half sob, and reach out to take the metal form from her.

“It’s perfect,” I manage. “Thank you.”

“Should we go?” she asks, sounding anxious for the first time since we’ve arrived.

“I think so,” I say, rubbing some of the blackness off of the cookie cutter with my thumb. I feel guilty for not looking for more mementos, for not taking more time to pay homage to my family, but that will have to wait for another day when I feel stronger. Katniss takes my free hand and leads me home. We don’t talk as we walk back, just listen to the birds around us. But when we walk through the front door, Katniss asks if I want to bake cookies and I realize that I really do.

She stays with me while I make the dough, even breaking our “no-baking-for-Katniss” rule by cracking few eggs for me. While the cookies bake, I make icing for them: yellow lemon and purple berry. Then Katniss and I decorate the picnic basket shaped sugar cookies and I tell her about how my dad used to buy berries from her just for these cookies. One of the best sellers, he used to say. She takes a bite of a berry cookie, still warm and dripping a bit of the not-quite-dry icing and I can’t help but smile at the purple on her face. When I lean forward to wipe it off, she kisses me instead and she tastes like a good memory.

Then, somehow, we’re standing, pressed against each other, bodies flush. We leave the cookies on the table and stumble into the living room, kissing each other the whole way. But then Katniss redirects course, guiding me to the guest room instead where she pushes me onto the unmade guest bed. My heart pounds in my chest - it’s like she can’t wait to get me upstairs. I’m still reeling with the surprise of her about face while I watch her strip off her clothes. She stands at the end of the bed, naked, smiling at me. “Peeta,” she purrs, “take off your pants.” She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I’ve only barely shaken my pants and underwear off when she clambers on top of me, astride my body with her hands over my heart, her eyes glinting as she looks out the open window. She bends over to kiss me, soft and slow, grinding our hips together. I feel a strange combination of sadness, gratitude, and arousal. Making love to Katniss is always an emotional experience fo me, but this time is uniquely so. Her body looks particularly enticing while she bounces on top of me in the sunlight, and the fabric of the mattress is itchy on my skin, and her hair brushes against my nose when she leans forward, her hands on my shoulder and chest for leverage. She’s almost silent and I can hear the noise our bodies make together, feel the soft press of her breasts against me when we occasionally touch. She makes me feel alive in a way that I would have never thought possible, particularly on a day like today.

After we’ve finished and we cuddle on the naked mattress, I feel like I might cry. I’m not sure why, though I do feel somewhat guilty for letting this day, my time to remember my family, turn into another day of Katniss and I. She seems to take over my every thought, every day of my life whether she’s there or not. And while I generally don’t mind her constant presence in my thoughts, I do wonder if it makes me a bad brother or son. Like she’s reading my mind, Katniss reaches up and brushes the backs of her fingers down my face. “You’ll always remember them,” she tells me, words just above a whisper. “They’ll always be here.”

Later, we go to bed and leave the cookies on the table. Tomorrow morning, I will wrap them up and hand them out on my way back to the bakery.


	6. What about the one with the dandelion?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares have always been difficult - Peeta and Katniss continue to try and find a way to support one another.

Three years. Three years since I watched Prim disappear in a consuming cloud of fire, since I killed Alma Coin, since I came back to District 12. Three years since the last Hunger Games. Three years, and the pain still persists. Not just the pain, but everything that comes with it, too. The nightmares, the sadness, the inability to eat or move or speak. I feel like I should have moved on by now, but at least Aurelias says it’s normal. It’s usual to feel this way after so much trauma, he says. I wonder how many people have suffered this much trauma, or worse, so that Aurelias can know what is “normal”. Peeta suffers, too. I know he does, even if he doesn’t say anything. I want to be there for him the way he is for me, but he is better at concealing his suffering than I am.

One morning, I wake up and he is not in bed. It’s dark out, still too early for him to be working on the rebuild of his family’s bakery, and far too early for me to be getting out of bed to go look for him. He could just be in the bathroom, but his side of the bed is cold, which tells me he’s been up for a while. I force myself out of the warm cocoon I’ve made of the blankets and put on a pair of pants, wrap a discarded sweater around myself and grab the oil lamp off of the bedside table. The hallway is dark as I walk the short distance to his room. He hasn’t slept in that bed in quite some time, so I tell myself not to be hurt if I find him sleeping in there. But when I crack open the door, I find the room dark and cold, the bed is empty and has been for a long time.

So I head downstairs, listening for movement somewhere in the house, but it’s quiet other than the sound of my feet on the stairs. I walk towards the kitchen, lamp outstretched to offer as much light as possible without turning on the harsher overhead lights. There is a dark shape at the table, slumped over. “Peeta?” I whisper, worried he might be having an episode and scared of what will happen if I shock him. But he doesn’t rouse, so I move a little closer and speak a little louder. “Peeta?”

He sucks in a gasp of air and sits up quickly, hands shooting out over the surface of the table. He knocks over a glass that was sitting in front of him. “What?” he asks, clearly confused.

“What are you doing down here?” I pick up the empty glass and carry it to the sink, trying to surreptitiously smell it, but if there was any alcohol in it, I can’t tell. I fill it with water and set it in front of him on the table. He’s watching me tiredly, but doesn’t say anything. “Peeta?” I ask again, and move to place a hand on his shoulder where it meets his neck. He flinches at my touch – he may not be having an episode now, but he’s either already had one or is fighting it off.

“Had a nightmare,” he says. He won’t tell me what it was about, I know, but the way he recoils from my touch gives me enough to go on.

Still, I ask him if he wants to talk about it and he stiffly tells me that he doesn’t. I decide it’s best to leave him for the night; my presence is only upsetting him more. So I ignore the urge to kiss him and instead, just say “good night” before going upstairs. I know neither of us will sleep, but he needs his space right now, so I leave the lamp with him and head back to our bedroom in the dark. It feels colder and emptier than it did when I first woke as I crawl back into bed without Peeta next to me. I’m not clingy or needy but I miss him more than I’d like to admit. I close my eyes and try to remind myself that it’s just for one night.

I must fall asleep because the next time I open my eyes, the sun is shining and Peeta is sitting up in bed next to me. “Good morning,” he says, sounding mildly sheepish. He reaches out to play with the sleeve of my shirt and I know any lingering effects from his nightmare have passed. “Sorry about last night,” he says, even though he doesn’t have to. “Did I wake you?”

I shake my head and sit up. “Do you want to talk about it now?” I’m not sure how I want him to answer, but I’m pretty sure I know what he’ll say.

“Not really,” he says. I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Peeta is always ashamed and embarrassed by the visions he has of me in his hijack induced nightmares. He doesn’t want to tell me because he’s afraid he’ll hurt my feelings, even though I’m sure I’ve heard all of it when he yells at me during an episode. I want so badly to be there for him and to comfort him, but don’t want to make him uncomfortable.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I won’t be upset.”

“I will,” he tells me, running his finger over a scar on my collar bone.

“I just want to help,” I say. And then, realizing it’s more than that, “I want to understand.”

He sighs and looks at me earnestly. “Okay,” he says, but he doesn’t want to talk about it here, in our bedroom, in our space. We decide to take a walk to the market, where we can pick up a few things and talk. I try not to think too much about this as I dress and braid my hair, but it will be the first time that I hear a coherent explanation about Peeta’s dreams. For years I have been begging him to let me in and now that he finally is, I’m having a hard time making sense of my feelings. I am anxious about what he will say, warmed by this opportunity to grow closer to him, and worried about how I will react.

Once I’m dressed, we head for the market. There is a slight chill in the air, but since we are at the tail end of spring, it will warm up as the day moves along. Peeta is in charge of our shopping list and so he recites it a few times, trying to determine if we’ve forgotten anything.

“We should see if there are any vegetables from 11.” A woman named Charlamaine sometimes comes to our weekly market with vegetables from her farm – she is able to grow what we can’t grow here and I look forward to her visits. I am especially partial to her strange cucumbers, but Peeta says they feel odd to him.

But before we buy anything, we walk over to a bench that looks into the makeshift market, filled with tents and stalls, waiting for the day when the merchants’ square is fully rebuilt and ready to house its eager tenants. Peeta takes my hand and breathes in deeply. I’m not sure if he’s working to calm his own nerves or if he’s inhaling the fresh air. “You’re sure you want to know?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Even though none of it is real and it doesn’t change how I feel about you and will only upset you?”

“Even if…even if that’s the case,” I tell him.

“Last night, I dreamed that you were one of the…people torturing me at the Capitol. I won’t…can’t go into details.” He won’t look at me, but instead keeps his eyes crushed shut. He traces his thumb over the back of my thumb and the action, so familiar and so comforting, grounds me somewhat. “But you hurt me…humiliated me. You said…terrible things. I…Katniss?” His voice is thick with emotion when he finally looks at me, eyes glazed and red with unshed tears.

“Yes?”

“I don’t think I can do this.”

For a movement, I’m unsure of what he means. Does he mean shopping? Telling me about his dream? Or does “this” encompass the entirety of what our lives have now become? I must look at him for a moment too long in my confusion because he clears his throat and says, “I don’t think I can tell you anymore. It’s too…fresh. It feels too real.”

I understand, I do. There are many days and nights when I curl up in bed because the entire world feels too real. It feels too raw and painful to face other people’s joy, or even their mere existence. Talking is too difficult and requires too much energy. Just breathing feels like a chore. And on those days and nights, Peeta is there, exactly what I need. Supporting me, feeding me, giving me space when he’s sure it’s safe to do so. I can do that for him – grant him the space that he is asking for. So I tell him thank you, for sharing what he could with me today. It is a mark of how much we have grown that he trusted me enough to assume I wouldn’t run away to the woods after hearing about his awful dream. Truthfully, a large part of me wants to, but what Peeta needs now is my loving presence, not my cold absence. “Let’s buy some things,” I tell him, trying to lighten the mood. I kiss him and decide to call Aurelias later to talk about how to handle this.

That evening, Peeta naps on the couch in the sitting room, likely exhausted as a result of the lack of sleep he got last night (not that he would admit it if I asked). I decide to use the quiet moment to call Aurelias, but – wary of being caught – decide to take the call in the study. I’m still not overly fond of the space, but find it far less daunting since Peeta has moved his art supplies into the room. I dial the number that I, unfortunately, know by heart. Someone picks up on the second ring. “Dr. Aurelias’ office.” Their voice is sweet and calming, perfect for this task.

“Is Dr. Aurelias available for a call?”

“May I ask a name?”

I wince – I hate telling people who I am, even three years after everything that has happened. “Katniss Everdeen,” I must have spoken with this receptionist before because my name garners no reaction or maybe I’m just less famous than I thought. They put me on hold while they go to see if Aurelias will take my call and just moments later they transfer me through to his line.

“Ms. Everdeen, hello. How can I help you today?”

“I need…advice.” Even though I am loathe to say so.

“Certainly. What would you like to talk about?”

“Peeta.”

He sounds like he’s correcting a small child when he says, “Katniss, I’ve told you before that I can’t discuss confidential patient information with you; you will just have to wait for Peeta to decide to tell you.”

“No, that’s not what this is about. I’m just not sure of the best way to help him with…when he has nightmares about…me.” For some reason, I feel ashamed to say it. Aurelias is quiet for so long that I begin to worry we may have been cut off. “Are you…?”

“My apologies,” he says, “this is a new development.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“We haven’t discussed this aspect of your relationship with Peeta before. Has something recently changed?”

I sigh and just barely manage to keep myself from groaning. “Yes, I woke up last night and found Peeta in the kitchen after he’d had a nightmare. About me. And today, he tried to tell me about it but was struggling. He was…emotional.” I hate talking to him about anything, but especially this. It feels too intimate, like I’m violating something sacred between Peeta and I. But I know Peeta speaks openly to Aurelias about me. I ignore both the pang of jealously and the urge to hang up the phone.

“How did that make you feel, when he had difficulty sharing with you?”

I think for a moment. It made me feel sad, guilty, jealous, hurt, heartbroken, and helpless. But instead, I tell Aurelias that I I felt “bad”.

“Bad how?” he asks – not letting me get away with it that easily.

“That I was…the cause of that pain. That I couldn’t…make it go away.”

“You feel that you were the cause?”

I despise how he digs into everything I say, like nothing I’m telling him makes sense. “Yes,” I huff, exasperated. “It was me he was dreaming of, me who he didn’t want to be near when he woke up. It was my fault.”

“What causes his dreams?”

“Well…I…his time in…” I don’t want to play this game anymore. I know where Aurelias is going – Peeta was highjacked and the only people to blame are his torturers and those who directed them. I am still not interested in taking part in this dance, though. “I just want to be able to be there for Peeta. Like he is for me. But he won’t, or can’t, tell me how.” I hear a noise downstairs. Peeta must be waking up. “I have to go,” I say, suddenly whispering.

“I’d like to talk about this on our call next week.”

“Okay.” I’m not really paying attention to him anymore. “Thanks, bye.”

“Goodbye, Ms. Everdeen.” Why does he insist on calling me that?

I hang up the phone and go downstairs to find that Peeta has gotten off the couch and is starting a fire. It’s not too cold, but the warmth will be pleasant. “Did you have a good nap?” I ask.

He glances at me and then looks pointedly at the half knitted scarf I abandoned to go upstairs. “I woke up and you were gone.”

“I had to…” I don’t want to lie to him. “Sorry, I didn’t think I’d be gone that long.”

“Everything okay?” He reaches up from where he’s kneeling on the ground to tuck a finger in my pants’ pocket.

I run a hand over his arm – his skin is still warm and soft from his nap. “I’m alright,” I say.

He stands up, then, and actually looks me in the eye. His face hardens. “You’re upset about the nightmare.”

“Yes,” I say, then catch myself. “No, I mean, I’m worried and…but not mad. At you, I’m not.” I wonder if he can even make sense of what I’m saying, because I can’t. “Can I start over?” I take a deep breath, Peeta smiles at me pityingly and nods. “I just want to be there for you like you are for me.” I’m struggling to get the words out, but push on because he deserves to know. “I feel like there’s no way that I possibly can be, though, because me being there just makes it worse.”

He looks at me sadly and reaches out to pull a string from my hair. “I know,” he tells me. “And I’m working on it, I’m just not there yet.” I feel crestfallen. I don’t know what I was hoping for, but that certainly wasn’t it. “But you are there for me in so many other ways,” he says, suddenly back-peddling. “I am so grateful for you every single day.”

I don’t want him to flatter me or try to save my pride. I frown. “Peeta, I’m being serious.”

“So am I. What would I do without you?”

Have a family, I think. Not wake up in either a cold sweat or to my screams every night, I think. Have a partner who would actually engage with you regularly, I think. Be happy, I think. But I don’t say any of that. Instead I sigh and nod because I suddenly feel so drained from the day that I could curl up and sleep for years. I turn to go up to bed, but it’s still early and Peeta’s not having it. He grabs my hand and pulls me towards him. “Tell me a story?” He asks, leading me to the kitchen where I am 99.9% sure that he will be making cheese buns.

“What kind of a story?”

“Any story.” He sits me down at the table. “What about the one with the dandelion? It’s one of my favourites.”

I only blush a little.


	7. Laundry Day

The re-building of the merchant’s square is finally complete. It’s taken quite some time, so it’s no surprise that the whole community is planning a celebration. All of the merchants will be opening their doors for the first time today, bringing some sorely needed commerce and activity back into the District. Up until now, we have made do with an open air market when the weather is decent and deliveries on the train when we need them. I somehow managed to win the bid on the bakery – I have a sneaking suspicion that is has something to do with Thom - and so I am in the back with my assistant, Angie, putting the finishing touches on mini cookies that I’ve made for people to try. Katniss told me I shouldn’t waste the money on free samples because everyone already loves my baking, but I think it’s important to take part in these events.

Katniss should be arriving at the bakery any time; she promised she would join me for the grand opening ceremonies, but I don’t imagine she will stay for much longer than that. She’s never been one for parties, at least as long as I’ve known her.

Angie puts a sugar pearl on the final cookie and smiles at me. “Mind if I go change now?” she asks. She’s just a bit younger than me, but is always so polite.

I wipe my hands on a towel. “Of course, thanks for the help. I’ll see you soon.” Her house is only about five minutes away walking, but she rushes out of the bakery like she hasn’t got time to spare. I’ve put my clothes in the bathroom rather than going all the way back home to change. I take the cookies out front and arrange them on the counter. There is a crowd milling about in the square outside my door and I can hear a band playing a traditional song. I catch the tail end of the line _Always look on the bright side of life_. I can’t help but grin, the perfect sentiment on this very important day for our community.

The back door opens and shuts, too soon for Angie to be back. “Katniss?” I call, giving the counter one last wipe down.

“I’m here.” She sounds…defeated.

I head to the back to see what’s bothering her and find her standing in the kitchen in her hunting clothes with her hair a mess. There is a leaf stuck in the collar of her shirt. “Is that what you’re wearing?” I try not to sound judgmental – I want Katniss to be comfortable, but the flyer did ask everyone to dress “nicely”.

“I can’t come,” Katniss says, which makes me wonder if she’s an apparition.

“But you’re…here.” I sound like an idiot.

“I mean, I can’t stay. For this.” She picks the leaf off of her shirt and sets in on the counter.

I clench my jaw and try not to sound annoyed when I ask, “Why not?”

“It’s too much. Too many people. I’m sorry, I just…”

I feel a lot of things at once. Sad that the woman I love won’t be with me, hurt that she didn’t try harder, angry that she clearly made up her mind about this some time ago but didn’t tell me, and guilty about all of my feelings…for not understanding her better. I probably shouldn’t have even asked her to come. So I say, “okay,” and then turn to walk to the bathroom to change. I’m only in there for a short moment, belt undone and pants unzipped when there’s a knock at the door. I open it slowly, unsure if it will be Katniss or Angie on the other side. I am pleased to see Katniss, looking at me warily, chewing her lip. Even though I am not overly happy right now, being around her always seems to bring me some sort of comfort. Well, unless…I don’t want to think about that right now.

“Yes?”

“Can I come in?” she asks, pushing the door a bit with her toe.

I step back to let her in and her hands, cool from being outside, go to the back of my neck. “I love you,” she says, leaning in to kiss me. Her mouth is warm and her lips are dry. Her fingertips flutter against the heated skin of my neck and I pull her closer to me after she shuts the door behind her. She pulls back for a breath, lips and chin pink. “I’m so proud of you and so happy for you,” her hands move to my waistband and push my slacks and underwear down. Katniss doesn’t have to do much to get me hard and I’m already halfway there.

Still, I can’t help stupidly asking, “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to have sex with you,” she tells me matter-of-factory, looking me in the eye. “Unless you don’t want to?”

I always want to have sex with Katniss, but I honestly never though she would do it with me in the bakery. Fantasized about it? Sure. Just never _thought_ it would happen. I suppose I should give her some more credit. As I’m thinking all this, I haven’t answered her yet and she’s starting to look worried – thinking she’s made two wrong decisions today. My words seem to be failing me, so I reach out to undo the tie on her pants rather than responding. Katniss is a pragmatic woman, rarely prone to flights of fancy or romanticism, so I’m surprised to find she doesn’t have any underwear on.

“Laundry day,” she tells me, shrugging her shoulders mischievously. I know laundry day was two days ago, because I helped her fold, but I’m not going to say anything that will ruin the mood. She pushes me back onto the closed toilet seat, which isn’t far in the tiny bathroom. I stumble a little because my pants are currently around my ankles, but Katniss helps me to stay upright. Once I’m seated, she takes off her top and fully shimmies out of her pants so that she is left in nothing but her boots. “I’m so proud of what you’ve done here,” she tells me, flinging her hair behind her back, “and I’m sorry I can’t help you celebrate with all these people.”

“I don’t care about celebrating with anyone else,” I tell her, which isn’t entirely true, but I’ll tell her whatever she wants to hear right now.

Katniss puts her hand over my mouth. “Shh,” she tells me, “of course you want to celebrate with other people. You’re Peeta Mellark. But for now, I can give you this.” She straddles my waist and sets herself down on me – I almost stop breathing when she lets me bottom out. Then my hands go to her waist, pressing into her tender flesh, my hips jerking of their own volition, always seeking more pleasure than I am willing to ask her for. She tells me to be quiet – there’s so many people outside, anyone could hear, but it’s difficult to contain myself when I’m with her. “It’s so amazing what you’ve done here,” she says, breathily and between thrusts. “You’ve helped to bring back hope, show people what we can be again.”

Her sentiment is sweet, but I’m struggling to focus on her words. Katniss moves on top of me, quickly picking up speed and I trail one of my hands up her waist and cup her breast. I want to lean forward and press my mouth to her skin, but the angle makes it difficult. She seems to read my mind and leans forward to give me access, at the same time shifting the angle of her body where we meet. I’m just taking her nipple into my mouth when a loud knock on the door startles me.

“Peeta? Are you in there?” It’s Angie, back from changing. I didn’t realize Katniss and I had been at it for so long.

“Yes,” I manage to get out, Katniss staring down at me with wide, mirthful eyes.

“Okay, you might want to hurry up. The crowd outside is pretty big,” she says through the door.

Katniss moves quickly on top of me and it takes everything I have to strangle out, “I’ll be right out.” I look at Katniss, hoping she’s not going to make a fool of me in front of my new, young, impressionable employee. It’s certainly not her style to do so, but until today I also didn’t think it was her style to have sex in the bakery. I’m just about to finish when there’s a knock on the door.

“Peeta, they’re starting speeches.” I open my mouth to respond but no sound comes out.

Katniss speaks for me. “Just a minute!”

I hear Angie’s footsteps as she quickly runs away from the door.

After I’ve dressed (Katniss makes sure that my tie is straight), we both exit the bathroom together. I would expect Katniss to want to hide from Angie, but she doesn’t intend to do anything of the sort. “Have fun,” she tells me, waving innocently as a very red Angie and I exit the front. Katniss will sneak out, unseen, from the back.

She isn’t always able to be everything someone would need, I think, as I talk with other merchants who want to know where Katniss is, but she is perfect for me.


	8. Truth? Or Dare?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A blustery storm forces Katniss and Peeta inside, where Katniss learns some of Peeta’s childhood memories.

It’s storming outside; my least favourite kind of storm: a winter onslaught full of ice and snow. Peeta and I are in the living room, cozy on the couch while the fire roars, but I can hear the windows rattling upstairs as the storm beats against them. I hate this kind of weather because it makes me feel trapped, stuck. I can’t go anywhere when it’s like this, and even though there’s no-one else I’d rather be trapped with than Peeta, we’re still trapped here and who knows how long? Peeta knows that this kind of weather makes me restless, so he’s giving me a foot massage to try to calm me down. We’re sitting across from each other on the couch, and I feel like it wouldn’t be right to let him massage my feet while his foot is resting in my lap, so I’ve picked it up and am trying (though not very skillfully) to mimic his ministrations. Lucky for me, I have only half the amount of feet to massage that he does. I’m staring into the fireplace, wondering how battered Peeta’s winter garden will be when he interrupts my train of thought with a question.

“Have you ever played truth or dare?”

I stare at him for a moment. “No…what’s that?”

Peeta grins at me and pinches my big toe lightly before resuming the foot massage. “It’s a game that my brothers and I used to play. Well, mostly me and Rye.”

I’m suspicious. If this is a game that young boys got up to on their own, I’m not thinking it’s going to be anything good. “Okay…”

“So, basically, how it works is you take turns. So, I would ask you truth or dare and you pick one. If you pick truth, I get to ask you any question and you have to answer. If you pick dare, I get to make you do whatever I want.”

“What happens if I don’t want to answer the question or do the dare?”

“That’s…that’s not how it works. You have to do it.” Peeta is flushing in the warmth of the fire and smiling my favourite smile. Small, sweet, shy – but there’s a boldness behind it that tells me he is taking this risk for me. For us. To do something different together. And sharing a special memory of his brothers with me, which is something that happens rarely enough that I want to take part simply because of that.

I look at him for a moment longer and then can’t hold out any more. “Okay,” I relent.

“Yes!” he says, squeezing my foot for emphasis. “Okay, I’ll go first so you get the hang of it. Katniss, truth or dare?”

“Mmm…truth?”

“Okay, I’ll go easy on you. What is your most embarrassing memory?”

“That’s going easy on me?” I laugh nervously and drop Peeta’s foot to my lap. I have to think for a moment because I have a lot of difficult memories – painful, sad, heartbreaking – but nothing overly embarrassing is coming to mind. Peeta chuckles.

“Come on, everyone’s got an embarrassing memory. Mom walked in on you in the bathroom?”

“Our bathroom was in the yard until we moved in here,” I say off-handedly. Peeta huffs. Finally, a memory floats to the surface of my mind, something long forgotten but bittersweet. “Okay, I’ve got something. When I was about seven years old, my dad took me out to the lake to swim before we went hunting. It was a Sunday so he had the whole day off and Prim was still so little that Mom had her hands full with her.”

“That’s nice, that you got to spend some time just with him.”

“It was until I ruined it,” I say, without any venom in my voice. “We were swimming in the water and I thought…I don’t know what I thought. It felt like something had wrapped around my leg and I imagined this…creature, under the water, pulling me under. I screamed and starting thrashing around. My dad came and pulled me out right away. It ended up it was just some grass that had wrapped around my leg.”

“That’s the most embarrassing thing you can remember?”

“That’s not really the embarrassing part. What was embarrassing is that we were supposed to be hunting for that week’s game, and I scared everything away. We came back with a few rabbits from dad’s snares, but I was the butt of every joke that week.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that one, but it was a bit weak.” Peeta laughs at me when I groan. “Your turn,” he urges after moment.

“Right. Peeta,” I say his name very seriously. “Truth? Or Dare?”

“I’ll pick…”he looks at me mischievously. “Dare.”

“Okay, I dare you to tell me your most embarrassing memory.”

“That’s not how it works!”

“I think we can make it work however we want to make it work.”

“Fine. But mine is way worse than yours, so you will have to owe me.”

I pull on his big toe. “Spill, Mellark.”

“I was 13 years old and Rye was going to be finishing school that year. He was desperate to make some money of his own before he had to start working in the bakery. He was an amazing artist. He could draw anything and make it look like it was real. So he started drawing pictures of women…naked women, and selling them to his classmates.”

“Mhm.”

“And I found some of them in our bedroom. I was looking for something on his side of the room and found a few pieces of paper folded up under a book or something. I was being nosy and took them out to look. And…I kept one. I wasn’t shocked to see them because I had known what he was up to for a while, but I was shocked that he had left three of them in our room. What if our mom had found them while she was going through our stuff?”

“Did she do that often?”

“Often enough that we had to be prepared for when she did.”

Peeta pauses for a moment and I wiggle my legs to encourage him to continue.

“So I take one of the drawings for myself. Because, well…I was a 13-year-old boy.”

“Mhm.”

“And I…was doing what 13-year-old boys do with pictures of naked women and Rye walked in and caught me with my pants down. Literally.”

I can’t help it. I giggle. The giggle grows into a full laugh and Peeta is sitting across from me trying to frown but failing to hide his smile. At least he’s made me laugh – I know that’s what he’s thinking. Peeta is always willing to give wherever and whatever he has to if it means that I can reap the benefit. “Oh, that must have been so embarrassing!” My cheeks are starting to turn red just thinking of how mortified 13-year-old Peeta must have been.

“It was pretty bad. Rye didn’t let up for months. He would always threaten to say something to mom, even though I knew he couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well, if he told her about catching me, he’d have to tell her where the drawing came from in the first place.”

I laugh again. I can’t help it, my mind is just bubbling with an emotion I can’t recognize. I can’t believe something like that actually happened, and to my sweet, kind, caring Peeta. “That is pretty embarrassing. But you’re sure it’s your most embarrassing memory?”

“Oh, please don’t make me try and think of something else.” He runs his hand up my calf under the blanket that covers both of our legs and tickles the back of my knee. “Just in case you were wondering,” he tells me, his voice dropping lower as he leans forward, hand trailing up the inside of my thigh, “the woman in that picture couldn’t hold a candle to you.”

I shake my head and sit up to kiss him, my hands going to his shoulders to pull us closer to one another. He pulls back after a moment, adjusting my legs so that they wrap around his waist rather than resting on his lap. This way I can move even closer to him as the blanket pools in our laps. Peeta runs his hands up and down my back, kisses my neck, nips at my ear. “My turn,” he growls, his voice vibrating through my chest.

“What?” Lost in his touch, I feel confused, like I’ve missed something.

“Truth or dare, Katniss?”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. This is very serious.”

“Dare.”

“Oooh. I can’t resist a woman who takes a risk.” He dips his head to trace his mouth along the collar of my shirt. “I dare you to make love to me in front of the fireplace.”

“Is that…is that allowed?”

“A wise woman once said “I think we can make it work however we want to make it work”. We make the rules here, Katniss.” He dips to kiss me again but then gets a more serious look on his face. “Unless you don’t want to? I know I said you ‘have’ to do the dare, but if you don’t-“

“Don’t be silly,” I tell him. And I do want to make love to Peeta. There is a heat inside of me that has nothing to do with the fireplace and everything to do with the patterns his hands have been tracing under the fabric of my shirt. It’s just that doing it on the floor is a little out of my comfort zone. But maybe that’s why Peeta made it a dare. Maybe he’s wanted to do this for a long time, but was too embarrassed to say so without the guise of this game. I wonder what else Peeta is yearning for but too afraid to ask about.

“Katniss?” Peeta asks, one hand coming to cup my jaw.

I must have been lost in thought because now he _really_ looks worried. “Yes?” I try to play it off like it was nothing.

“Are you sure? You seem…the mood’s changed. I was just trying to…do something fun, but if it makes you uncomfortable?” He seems anxious, nervous. It reminds me of many of our other ‘firsts’ together, and I can’t help but smile.

“Yes, I’m sure. I was just thinking.” To prove it to him, I push the blanket off of our laps onto the floor and then extricate myself from Peeta’s grasp so that I can stand up. I smooth out the blanket on the floor (there’s no way I’m laying directly on the hardwood in this cold) and then turn back to look at Peeta who is still watching me with uncertainty. “Do I look uncomfortable to you?” I ask, wanting to reassure him. I pull my shirt over my head and drop it to the floor before hastily shimmying out of my sweatpants.

“No,” he says, smiling, “not anymore.” He joins me quickly, shucking his pyjama pants and sweater, adding them to the pile of my clothes on the floor. Peeta squats down and drops to the ground before petting the blanket next to him with a smirk. “Want to join me?”

I can’t help but laugh. I sit down next to him with a bit more grace and then swiftly crawl into his lap, my legs wrapping around him once more. The air is cool around us, but his skin is hot beneath me. His hands on my back feel like hot coals and his stomach muscles are vibrating. I dip my head to bite lightly at his neck. “How long have you wanted to do this?” I ask, quiet and slow, so that I don’t scare him off.

He pulls back to look at me for a moment, nonplussed. “How did you know?”

“That dare came from somewhere.” I kiss him to show him that it’s okay – there’s no judgement here. “You should tell me about this stuff more often,” I say, my hands moving between us, down his torso. Peeta is already hard, pressing insistently (though not purposefully) at my backside. He lets out a huff of air and his hands travel down my back, along my flank, before he leans forward and presses me into the ground. I think about turning over on my hands and knees, a position that we tried recently which I think makes me finish faster than any other position. But I want to see Peeta’s face today – want to watch him experience this thing that he has secretly wanted for who knows how long. So I let him lay me down on the blanket (mostly gently, but I would have banged my head if I hadn’t held it up), and then hover over me.

Peeta leans down to press his mouth to one of my breasts, biting gently, and then slips a hand beneath my back when it arches. He presses the lower half of his body against me too, so that we are flush from the waist down, his legs tight between mine. I am struggling to form coherent thoughts as he switches to the other breast, sliding his body up and down an creating a delicious friction between my legs. I want to say something, but I just groan. I use my hands to pull at him, getting him to look up from his task and kiss me on the mouth. “Please,” I beg him, and he knows exactly what I mean.

Peeta pulls back and maneuvers so that he can enter me, and I can’t help the little burst of pleasure that escapes me. “Is it everything you thought it would be?” I ask, in a semi-garbled sentence.

“Better,” he huffs, sliding back and forth.

He bends down to kiss me again and something bangs. We must have bumped the table or something. Then I feel the cold and hear Haymitch, “Hey, have you got some firewoo- Oh fuck!”

Peeta drops down on top of me, a heavy blanket hiding my body from Haymitch’s view.

“Lock the door!” Haymitch says.

“Haymitch!” Peeta and I both yell at the same time and then I hear the door slam – Haymitch is trying to make a quick escape. Peeta rises up and looks towards the door. I can’t see it from my position, but he seems satisfied when he looks back down at me. “I should take some firewood over for him, but let’s finish, first.”

I laugh and smack at Peeta’s arm lightly. “Thanks for giving me a new “most embarrassing” memory!”


	9. And how we have prayed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss and Peeta decide that they are going to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit longer than my usual chapters, but I couldn’t find a good spot to split it, so I hope you are able to make it thought and enjoy! :)

It’s late. The sun has set and the stars are shining brightly in the ink blue colour of the sky. I should have been home hours ago, and the guilt of having made Katniss worry settles like an immovable rock in my stomach. I wonder if she will still be up, pacing the living room floor. Will she have gone out, looking for me? Will she be in bed, angry at my absence, and ready to turn me away? I have never failed to come home on time…sure, I’ve stayed an hour late to prep the bakery for a big day, or stopped to chat with a friend on the way home, but I’ve never been hours late, so I have no clue how my wife will react. I only know that she’ll be worried.

As I step carefully up our front stairs, I can see the lamps are on in the front room. So she’ll be doing the pacing, then. The handle of the door creaks as I turn it, walking sheepishly inside. Katniss is not pacing, but rather sitting on the couch, wrapped in a thin blanket that Annie sent to us years ago.

“Peeta,” she says, turning slowly to watch me close the door and take my shoes off. She doesn’t angry or worried, but sad. This, I was not expecting. “Where were you?” She doesn’t get up, but pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” I wince when my shoe lands loudly on the floor. “I didn’t have a chance to let you know.”

“Let me know about what?” As I walk over to her on the couch, I notice her eyes are red-rimmed, like she’s been trying not to cry. My heart clenches in my chest and I sit next to her on the couch; she doesn’t move away, but her body is ramrod straight when I put my arm around her.

“Thom came by when the bakery closed. He got some bad new today and needed a friend.”

She turns to look at me, now genuinely concerned. “What happened? Why didn’t you bring him over here?”

I pet her shoulder through the material of the blanket. “I though seeing you and I together might be hard on him.”

“What happened to Jenine?” Katniss asks, looking even more worried now.

“Nothing _happened_ to her. She left Thom.”

“Left him?”

“Yes. When he got home from work, there was note on the table, all her stuff gone.”

“But…why?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. The note said that she had fallen in love with someone visiting District 12, and she was leaving with them. But it didn’t say who or where.”

Katniss finally drops the blanket and turns to burrow into me, letting me close my arms around her. “Poor Thom,” she murmurs into my chest. “That’s awful. I can’t imagine what Jenine is thinking.”

“Yeah, he was pretty broken up about it. At first, he just wanted someone to talk to. But then as the night wore on, I was worried about leaving him alone.”

“Of course,” she says, like our friends’ partners leave them regularly and we know exactly how to handle it.

“I waited until he fell asleep, and then I left. Sorry I left you worrying, but he doesn’t have a phone.”

Katniss pulls back to look at me, kisses me on the mouth, then runs her hands around my torso to encircle me a in a hug. “It’s okay,” she finally says. “It sucked for me, but Thom needed you.” I rub her shoulder, grateful for the quick turnabout. “But I did have a surprise for you and I’m afraid it may have lost its lustre.” She sounds genuinely disappointed.

“What is it?”

“It’s upstairs,” she tells me, pulling away from our embrace. “Let’s go.” So we get off the couch. Even thought it’s late, Katniss takes the time to fold the blanket and lay it over the back of the couch while I turn off the lights. “I’m afraid you might be too tired to enjoy it,” Katniss laments as we climb the stairs. “We could do it in the morning.”

“Now you’ve really got me curious,” I tell her as we enter the bedroom. “There’s no way you’re making me wait until the morning.” She gestures for me to sit on the bed and then stands anxiously in front of me for a moment before opening the drawer of her bedside table and pulling out her journal. “Katniss,” I reach out and touch her hand when she moves to open the journal. “What’s going on?”

“You’ll see,” she tells me, and flashes a small smile – genuine, nervous, excited. She opens it to a marked page and holds it out for me to read. In her own cramped handwriting, I see today’s date, and three words: “contraception shot expires”.

It takes a moment for my brain to register what I have read, and then I look up at her. “Okay…” I say. “What, exactly, does this mean?” I think I know, but it’s probably best not to get my hopes up.

She smiles at me fondly, like I am a silly, confused boy. Which, in this moment, is not far off the mark. “Do you want to try?” She asks, closing the journal and setting it down. “Try to have a baby?”

“Do I?” The words in my brain can’t seem to form in my mouth, so instead I pull Katniss toward me and press my cheek to her abdomen. “Oh, God, yes.” My eyes are starting to water and I feel like my heart has flown out of my chest and is fluttering around the room. The fabric of Katniss’ nightgown is soft beneath my hands and face. We stand like that for a few minutes, or maybe it’s twenty. I’m not sure; time passes in a strange, untraceable bubble as Katniss plays with my hair and I imagine what it will be like to have a baby with her.

We thought it might have happened once before, in the past. A late menstrual cycle had us both on edge until Katniss took a test and it came back as negative. I started getting contraceptive shots after that, once every six months, but have never been very good at tracking these things, so Katniss has always let me know when it’s time to order a new one.

The time we thought it happened was difficult. Katniss didn’t want a baby and I had yearned for one for years. I didn’t know if she would keep the baby even if she was pregnant. Giving our child up for adoption would have ripped me apart, and keeping it might have destroyed her. There was no happy ending there, so even thought having a pregnant wife might have seemed like having my dreams fulfilled, it was actually a relief to see the negative result of the test, to know that one or both of us wouldn’t be losing our minds any time soon – at least not over a baby.

So, as overjoyed as I am when Katniss asks me if I want to try to have a baby, I am cautious, too. What if she finds out she is pregnant and then changes her mind? What if she loses herself in despair? We’ve been doing so well recently, and if she’s risking her sanity just to give me a child…I can’t risk it, not unless she really wants it, too.

I must have been lost in thought for a while, because Katniss gently pulls my head away from her. “Are you okay?” she asks. She kneels down in front of me, hands on my thighs. “What’s wrong?” She sounds mildly hurt, but mostly worried. “I thought you’d be happy?”

“I _am_ happy,” I insist, reaching out to toy with the thin strap of her nightgown. Her nipples are pert under the fabric and I guiltily pull my eyes away from her breasts to look at her face. “I am happy,” I repeat, to be sure that she knows. “It’s just…are you sure this is what you really want? You don’t feel…pressured?”

“Pressured? By who? You? Don’t be silly,” she says, not unkindly, before rising off the floor and sitting next to me on the bed. Katniss takes my hand and brings it to her lips. “I’ve thought about this for a long time, Peeta. The time is right. For us – for both of us. Don’t you think?” She kisses my palm and then places my hand on her breast, moving slowly to straddle me where I sit on the bed. Her nightgown hitches up and I can see her underpants. They are blue cotton and they look new.

“I do think so,” I tell her, voice tight as she pulls her nightgown over her head. I swallow thickly. “I’m sure if you’re sure.” Katniss bends to kiss me, dropping her nightgown on the floor. “Are these new?” I ask, tracing the white elastic of her underwear.

Katniss blushes. “I had to mark the occasion somehow.”

I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. “I like them,” I tell her, as she reaches between us to undo the fly of my jeans. My dick is already pressing against the fabric, so it’s a relief when she undoes the zipper. “Katniss,” I murmur, feeling like I should say something romantic or meaningful but coming up short. It’s difficult to make sense of anything with her palming me through my underwear.

“Shhh…” she says, and kisses me. “Let’s get you undressed.” My wife does an awkward little shimmy to get off my lap so that I can get rid of my clothes. She sits on the bed, watching as I toss my work clothes in the hamper. Once I’m naked, she all but pounces on me, pushing me against the wall, standing on her tip-toes to kiss me. “I love you,” she says. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” It’s like it’s a mantra for her, words turning to whispers in my ear and sending goosebumps down my spine.

“I love you, too,” I tell her, picking her up and carrying her to the bed. I pull her already damp underwear off and press my face against her groin, licking at the skin there. Fuck, I could come from this alone. But I feel her pawing at my shoulders, pulling me towards her.

“Please,” she begs me – she’s more than ready and so am I. I move to turn her over so that we can do it in her most recently favoured position, but she stops me and wraps her legs around my waist, pulling our groins flush together. When I look at her in askance, she offers a minute shrug in return and pulls at my shoulders. “Come on…” she presses her breasts to my chest as I enter her. It’s been a long day and I’m exhausted, but Katniss fills me with an energy that no-one and nothing else can. She moves her hips and does most of the work, leaving my hands free to roam her skin, my lips to kiss at a scar on the top of her shoulder.

As tired as I am, my body can’t help but respond to the way that Katniss is moving, clenching, twisting. A small, hidden part of my brain urges me not to finish because I know Katniss is nowhere near done. But the fog of it all: the exhaustion, the joy, Katniss’ teeth on my neck and her fingers tweaking a nipple – all of it balls up together and I can’t stop myself. After I finish, heaving my breaths, face resting on her sternum, her hands carding through my hair, I start to cry. It’s not happy crying or sad crying, I’m not really sure what it is. It’s like there’s so many feelings welling up inside of me that I can’t stop them from escaping.

Katniss pulls back and takes my face in her hands. Her thumbs swipe at my tears and I try not to be embarrassed when I make a decidedly unmanly sniffing noise. “Hey,” she said, voice as soft as the fabric of her nightgown. “Hey, it’s okay.” She pulls me back to her chest, presses our bodies flush together and runs her hands softly up and down my back. She hums a little and I feel my both going slack, before something jostles me back to awareness. I sit back quickly and wipe my face.

“You didn’t finish.”

She grins. “No, but you’re falling asleep. You can make it up to me in the morning.” She pulls herself away from me, leaving me to momentarily mourn the heat of our coupling while she turns out the lights and goes to clean up. I remove my prosthetic and crawl under the covers, not bothering to get dressed. When Katniss gets in bed next to me, I feel the warmth of her skin against mine. I pull her to me and press a kiss to her temple.

“Thank you,” I whisper – I’m already falling asleep.

When I wake in the morning, there is a beautiful and naked woman straddling my chest. Katniss has let her hair down and some of it flows over chest, letting her nipples peek out tantalizingly. Her hands rest on my chest for balance, between her legs and keeping what I want to see most hidden from view. “Good morning,” I croak, still not fully awake – but awake enough to appreciate the view.

“Good morning.” She grins, wiggling her ass the tiniest amount. Just enough to tease. “Still in the mood to make it up to me?”

I pull my hands out from under the blanket, grip her ass and tug her forwards. The jolt of motion knocks her off balance and her hands shoot up to grip the headboard to keep from toppling over. I nip carefully at the pale skin on the inside of her thigh. “I will never _not_ be in the mood to make it up to you.” Katniss laughs but is cut off when I lick at her centre before pressing my tongue inside of her, using my hands to maneuver her hips.

“Oh fuck,” she groans.

It’s the only time I’ve ever heard Katniss swear, when we’re having sex. And it brings me some sort of obscene, devine pleasure to know I’m the only one to bring her to that place. I scrape my teeth along her tender flesh and she grinds down unintentionally, seeking more friction. I bring one hand around from where I’ve been holding her and push a digit inside, letting my tongue focus on the most sensitive part of her. But she pulls back, huffing, cheeks pink and chest flushed.

“Are you ready?” She asks.

I didn’t expect this morning to be reciprocal. I guess she really was serious about _trying._ After last night, my intention was to focus entirely on Katniss’ pleasure, but my mind and body don’t always coordinate and I’m already achingly hard. Am I ready? I couldn’t be _more_ ready. I nod at Katniss and reach around to maneuver my dick as she adjusts, but she bats my hand away and gives me a few strokes for good measure, almost making me lose it right then. Every time she moves, her breasts move with her, pink skin bright in the morning sunlight, and I can’t stop myself from reaching up to grasp one. From the way her head falls back with a gasp, I get the feeling that she doesn’t mind.

“Peeta,” she murmurs. She takes my free hand and presses it to the bundle of nerves that so recently occupied my mouth. “Come on,” she says, and so I do. The movement of my hand is sporadic at best – it’s hard to focus on that with Katniss moving the way she does, on top of me, around me. But whatever I’m doing seems to be working for her. Before Katniss finishes, she always shuts her eyes tight and all of her muscles clench like she’s trying to stave off the inevitable. But it happens regardless and she collapses, boneless, on top of me, batting my hand away from her now oversensitive skin. With all of her muscles clenching, it’s impossible not feel the agonizingly glorious squeeze and finish right after her, so my hand wouldn’t be much good between her legs, anyways.

When I finish, she kisses me and tells me that my breath stinks. “Let’s take a shower,” she says, by way of a peace offering.

After the shower, I am getting dressed and Katniss is brushing her hair. I don’t think it’s fair for her to tempt me, towel pooled loosely around her waist, but she knows I have to go to the bakery; I’m already running late (even if it is for a good reason).

She looks at me thoughtfully in the mirror. “You should invite Thom over for dinner tonight,” she says.

I pause in the middle of buttoning my pants. “I’m not sure if he’ll be up to it. I mean…he just found out yesterday.”

She shakes her head. “You and I both know that Thom can’t cook for beans. Jenine is the only reason he ate anything remotely healthy. My cooking’s not that great, but it’s better than nothing. I’ll make him a few casseroles today, he can come over and have some company and then take some food home.” I am surprised at her thoughtfulness and don’t say anything for a moment. “Nobody should be alone after getting news like that,” she adds in the silence.

“That’s really kind of you,” I finally say, finishing with my pants. I walk over to kiss her and she stops brushing her hair to return the gesture. “I’ll ask him to come over for dinner,” I say. “See you tonight.”

“Love you,” she says, watching me leave.

“Love you, too.”

When Thom and I arrive at the house that evening (it took a bit of cajoling on my part but when I told him I still had some beer left over from Johanna’s last visit, he finally agreed), it is to a delicious smelling house. Katniss has really outdone herself. Elk steaks from her most recent hunting trip, pan fried green beans, and cheesy potatoes are all on the table begging to be eaten. Like she read my mind, two frosty beers are on the table, condensation sweating down the sides. I’m not used to coming home to a fully cooked mean and Katniss notices the look on my face when we walk into the dining room.

She gives me a perfunctory kiss and says, “Don’t get used to it,” under her breath before turning to give Thom a long hug. “I’m glad you came,” she says, and it sounds like she really means it. I’m not used to Katniss-the-hostess. The only other time I’ve ever seen her comfortable in the role is when Johanna visits – at least when they’re not bickering.

“Thanks for having me,” Thom says, dropping into the seat that Katniss gestures to. She has thoughtfully set up the seats so that I am across from Thom and she is next to him. She doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable. It’s awkward for a moment while everyone is dishing up their food, but then Thom asks what we think of the new “reality show” about Capitolites who have relocated to a District and Katniss tells him that she really likes the vegetarian couple who moved to District 10, and then the conversation doesn’t stop.

By the time we’re done eating, the sun has gone down and all of Johanna’s beer is gone. I haven’t laughed that much in a long time and Thom’s got a grin he can’t wipe off of his face. “Thanks for having me,” he says, rubbing his neck while Katniss and I clear the table. “It was nice not to…have to eat alone.”

Katniss drops the dishes in the sink – it will be my job to clean them later. “We should do it again soon,” she says, and I am surprised to hear she really sounds like she means it. “But in the meantime, I made you some things that you can take home and freeze. They’re all cooked, so you just have to heat them in the oven when you’re ready to eat them.” She pulls a few dishes out of the icebox, stacked neatly one on top of the other.

“You shouldn’t have,” Thom says. I can see a flush rising on his neck; he’s embarrassed, but also very grateful.

“It was nothing. Peeta will help you take them home. I’m going to call it a night.” She gives me a quick hug and then squeezes Thom’s shoulder before going upstairs.

Thom waits until he hears the bedroom door shut before stepping close to me and whispering, “Has Katniss always been like this?”

“No.”

“When did she change?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Beats me. I have no clue what’s gotten into her.” I put on my shoes and walk Thom home before retuning to the sink of dishes. It doesn’t take me long to wash everything, but I’m still expecting Katniss to be asleep by the time I wipe down the table and head upstairs. But she is awake, standing at the window, staring outside. “Hey you,” I say, walking over to wrap my arms around her, resting my chin on her shoulder. “What got into you today? I’ve never seen that Katniss before.”

Her hands come to rest on top of mine, playing with my wedding band. “Didn’t you like it?” She asks.

“Hmmm…” I think about my answer for a moment, to make sure that I word it right. Outside of out window, I see my old house, dark and dusty, still abandoned since the day I finally moved in with Katniss. “It’s not that I didn’t like it, it was just so…unlike you. It didn’t feel like the Katniss I know. It makes me wonder where it came from.”

Katniss turns in my arms to look at me, puts her hands in my back pockets. “I guess I just thought it would be nice for Thom to come over and have everything be…safe. Comfortable. Easy.” Her eyes are shifting left to right as she talks.

“Okay…”I say, “but I don’t think that’s the whole story.”

She frowns, sighs, and slumps back against the window sill. “It’s embarrassing,” she mumbles after a moment.

“What’s embarrassing?”

“I just kept thinking about all the good moms, you know? Like…Delly’s mom, Thom’s mom, Gale’s mom. That’s what they were like, and if I’m going to be like that I need practice.” She’s pink around the ears and clearly mortified by what she’s just said, so I tamp down the urge to laugh, but I can’t stop my smile.

“Katniss, you are going to be an amazing mother just the way you are. You don’t have to turn into someone else.”

“It just all felt so real this morning, after you left,” she says, her voice cracking like she might cry. “I was thinking about where we’d put the nursery and then I was thinking we’d need a high chair and diapers and…I don’t think I even remember how to change a diaper!” Now she _is_ crying, tears making their way slowly down her face.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. We don’t even know if you’re pregnant yet. We’ve got lots of time.”

She sniffs and wipes at her nose with the back of her hand. “Nine months is _not_ a lot of time, Peeta. I knew I had to start somewhere, and fast, so I started with what I knew – cooking dinner.”

My heart drops at the thought that Katniss may be reconsidering her decision, but I have to ask. “Are you changing your mind about the baby?”

She seems caught off guard. “What? No. It’s just scary. It was always going to be scary. But I’m ready, I’ve thought this through.”

“Okay,” I tell her, letting myself feel a little bit of hope again. “If you’re sure.”

The next two months pass in a bit of a blur. Thom comes over for dinner every Saturday and sometimes there is beer or wine (not for Katniss, though – even if she did like it, she wouldn’t risk it). There is always good conversation and great food. He has met a new girl named Pamela who he promises to bring over soon. Meanwhile, Katniss and I continue to try for a baby. Twice now, she has woken up with blood in her underwear and given me a look that is simultaneously disappointed and apologetic. To be honest, I’m a little exhausted by all of the sex. I come home from work and, like clockwork, we’re making love in the studio, in the guest room, in our bedroom. I imagine Katniss must be tired, and sore, too, but once she puts her mind to something, she is determined to be successful. We haven’t really talked about it much, but I know that it’s eating her up inside – the fact that she’s not pregnant yet. I’m even starting to wonder if something might be wrong with _me_.

It’s a Sunday afternoon when she brings it up. I am working in the garden and she is whittling herself a few new arrows. “I called my mom,” she says, out of the blue.

“Oh good.” My tomatoes have been ravaged by some pests. I turn them over sadly before tossing them into my compost bucket.

“She says it can take up to six months, even when you’re trying.”

I look up at her now. She is not looking at me, but rather is focused on properly attaching the feather fletching to her arrow. The back of her neck is red, but I can’t tell if it’s embarrassment or sunburn. “Six months?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, still not looking up. “She said it was best to have sex 14 days after the first day of my cycle, but it could happen any time.” She _still_ not looking at me, so now I know the flush on her skin is from embarrassment.

“Katniss,” I wipe my hands on my jeans and walk to sit next to her on the stairs. “We’ve been having sex nearly every day for the last two months. We’re doing everything that we can. It’ll happen when it happens.” I reach out to put a hand on her knee.

Katniss looks up at me sharply. “Not everything. My mom told me it helps if I’m on my back and then we put a pillow under my hips for at least 15 minutes after we finish.”

“Okay, we can do that.” I squeeze her knee to show her that I mean to support her in this endeavour.

“And if I…If I orgasm, that helps, too.”

Now it’s my turn to blush. Katniss talking to her mom about the mechanics of increasing the probability of getting pregnant is one thing, but thinking about her talking to her mom about the consistency with which I am able to make her finish is totally outside of my comfort zone. My stomach twists with something that feels like humiliation and guilt. “You do…orgasm most of the time.”

“It’s important Peeta.”

I swallow thickly and wonder if Katniss has been faking it for 15 years. I thought I knew her needs and wants well, but now I am starting to wonder if I have been learning the wrong ways to please my wife. I swallow thickly,” Okay, it there…something I’m not doing right?”

She takes my hand and laces our fingers together. “You’re doing everything right,” she tells me, then sighs. “I just thought it would be quicker, you know? All those years trying to keep it from happening and now that I finally want it…it seems unattainable.”

“It’s attainable,” I tell her. It will just take some time.

The Friday after that brings a long day at the bakery. I had two wedding cakes, plus their toasting loaves, and an order of 20 generic birthday cakes for the Capitol. I arrive home an hour later than usual, covered in dried frosting that wheedled its way under my apron. All I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep, but when I walk into the kitchen, my wife is sitting cross-legged on the countertop, in nothing but an apron. “What’s this?” I say, trying to sound interested.

“Surprise!” She says it weakly, which tells me she has probably been sitting there for a long time, nervously considering my reaction.

I’m loathe to say the next words that come out of my mouth, but I have to be honest with her. “You look amazing. And this is a perfect surprise. But I’m falling asleep on my feet. I don’t think I can do it tonight.”

“Oh.” Katniss looks mad, embarrassed, and heartbroken all at once. “Ok.” She hops down off the counter and rips the apron over her head, dropping it to the floor. She goes to walk by me, intentionally avoiding contact, but I reach out my arm to grab her by the waist and pull her in. Her body is stiff against mine.

“Katniss, please, I don’t want-“

“Don’t touch me,” she says, shoving my arm away. “I don’t want you to feel obligated.” And then she walks away, goes upstairs, leaving me in the kitchen with the discarded apron. I was going to tell her that I didn’t want to fight, but that seems moot at this point, so I hang up the apron and head upstairs.

When I enter our room, she has already sequestered herself in the bathroom. I try the door and find it locked, which I’m pretty sure is a first. “Please come out so I can talk to you.” I put my hand flat on the door, press my ear to the wood. She must be very close, because her response is much louder than I expected.

“Go to bed, Peeta. I’ll be out in a while.”

“Please?” I ask her again. I may not enjoy begging, but that doesn’t mean I’m above it. “I’ve just had a long day and I’m sorry, I didn’t react well. It was a great surprise and I want to…” I suck in a deep breath and start again. “I want you to know how gorgeous you are. It’s never an _obligation_ to touch you. It’s a pleasure and a privilege. It’s a gift. I love you and…Katniss, please come out.” I wonder if Haymitch, who was on his front porch when I got home, can hear us through the open window. I should go close it, but I’m anxious that if I walk away, I will lose any ground I’ve made.

I hear the bathroom door unlock and Katniss opens it slowly, coming out with a scowl on her face. She’s still naked and I reach out tentatively to hug her, waiting to see if she’ll reciprocate or shove me away again. She surprises me by crushing her body against mine.

“I should be the one saying sorry,” she says. Her voice is muffled by my shirt, but I can make out what she’s saying well enough. “I know I over-reacted. It’s just…it’s silly.”

“I’m sure it’s not.” I run my hands up and down her back. “What is it?”

“You’ve wanted a baby for so long. I know it’s true. And we were always waiting on me. Now that I know I want one it’s like…I’m failing because it’s not happening fast enough and I know my conversation with my mother freaked you out and I thought maybe you were getting tired of having sex with me so I thought I’d try something new and then when you weren’t even interested-“

She’s going a mile a minute and I’m afraid if I don’t cut her off, she’ll never stop. “Okay, woah, woah. Just hold on. I _was_ interested in you tonight and I always am. All you have to do is whisper my name and it’s like an electric current goes through me…but in a good way. I’m just so tired tonight, it happens. And you are _not_ failing. You said it yourself, it’s totally normal for this to take up to six months.” I pull her face away from my chest and kiss her forehead. “And I promise we can have sex twice tomorrow to make up for tonight and I’ll even get naked and put on an apron so that we’re even.”

At that, she gives a wet laugh and smacks my arm. “You don’t have to wear the apron,” she says. “But it might be fun.”I laugh at her and pull her to the bed.

“Can we cuddle tonight? We don’t get to do that much anymore.”

Katniss picks at a fleck of lime green frosting on my thigh. “Only if you promise to scratch my back.”

“Always.”

About five weeks after what I have (internally) dubbed the “apron incident”, we are waving Thom off after a night of dinner and cards. He has promised to bring Pamela for dinner next Saturday. As we’re putting away the freshly dried dishes, Katniss turns to me with a big grin.

“I was going to wait until tomorrow morning to tell you, but I can’t keep it in anymore.”

There is only one thing I can think of that would have her so excited. “Are you-“

“I think so,” she says. “I picked up a test yesterday. I haven’t taken it yet – I wanted to do it together.” I have a brief flashback to the last time Katniss took a pregnancy test and how different the circumstances were. It would be nice to replace that with a more positive memory.

“Thank you for waiting for me.”

She winks at me, a gesture so rare it doesn’t quite look natural, and then takes me upstairs. The unassuming cardboard box is on our dresser – I must have missed it when I was getting ready for work this morning. She opens it and tips out the test, sucks in a deep breath. “Whew,” she tells me, shaking it. “I didn’t think I would be this nervous.”

I nod. I’m nervous too. My heart is fluttering in my chest and I feel my skin getting warm. I am both eager to know if I am going to be a father and anxious about Katniss’ reaction if the test is negative. I sit down on the end of our bed and watch Katniss go into the bathroom, closing the door behind herself. This moment feels surreal to me – something that, for many years, I didn’t think I was going to get to enjoy. And now it comes to me after just over three strange months that were filled with love, frustration, hope, desperation. I’m not sure how I will feel on the other side of this cataclysmic moment, but I want to be sure I am prepared to help Katniss, whatever the result. I’m not a praying man, but I send a hopeful message out to the universe and then take a deep breath in.

Katniss comes out of the bathroom a moment later, holding the test in her hand. “This feels more stressful than last time,” she says, and it’s the first time either of us have referenced that experience aloud. I think that maybe we both thought it would jinx the results or something, but I guess now that she’s peed on the test, there’s no going back. It’s going to be what it’s going to be. Katniss reaches out with her free hand and grips mine tightly, fear and anxiety coursing through her with every pump of her blood. I try to calm her by rubbing my thumb over the back of her hand, a gesture that’s usually effective in bringing her comfort.

We’re both silent for a while, and then she says, “It’s time. Let’s look together.” I don’t want her to know how anxious _I am_ , so I try to suck in another deep breath surreptitiously, but from the way she looks at me, I didn’t do a very good job. We both look down at the test and there, in the little screen, is the news that is going to change my life, one way or another. _Positive_. Katniss drops the test to the floor and wraps her arms around my neck, tackles me back onto the bed and kisses me fiercely. “Oh thank you,” she says, kissing my neck, chin, jaw, chest – anywhere she can reach. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” I don’t think she’s thanking me, but I kiss her back anyways, and hold her on top of me with both arms around her waist. It feels like a bubble inside of me has popped and some emotions that I wasn’t willing to explore have suddenly erupted inside of me. A flood of something gushes out from that popped bubble, and I start laughing for some reason.

Katniss sits back and stares down at me. “What are you laughing for?” Not accusatory, just confused.

At this point, I’m laughing so hard that tears are leaking out of my eyes. She swipes at them and waits for me to catch my breath so that I can answer. “I don’t know,” I finally tell her. “I’m just so happy.”

Katniss drops down once more to snuggle against my chest, still vibrating with the last tremors of the unexpected laughter. “Me, too,” she tells me.


	10. It will always be you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ch-ch-changes! Change can be scary, exciting, unnerving, and positive all at once.

I stare at myself in the mirror. It’s not something I’m typically wont to do, but I can’t help it recently. My belly, finally pregnant with baby after what feels like so much hoping and trying, is just starting to show. I can still hide it under too large, baggy shirts and my father’s old hunting jacket, but at moments like this, when I’ve just stepped out of the shower, there’s nothing to hide the physical changes. I run a hand over the tight skin of my abdomen and try to ignore the swelling feeling of impending doom. The door opens and Peeta walks in. If he finds it odd to find me standing, naked, in front of the mirror while I pet my stomach, he doesn’t show it. And he sure doesn’t say anything.

“Hello.” He walks over to me and I think he is going to hug or kiss me, but instead he drops to one knee and presses his cool lips to the warm skin of my belly. His hands dance over my damp back, raising goosebumps on my skin. He looks up at me from where he’s kneeling and smiles. “You’re lucky I have to go to work, otherwise I’d be keeping you busy all day.”

I offer him a tight smile, but I’m confused. I thought he was kissing my belly because of the baby, but now he’s talking about having sex. I kiss him and leave him in the bathroom, wondering if it will always be this way now, if I’ll always be competing mentally with this baby for my husband’s affections. I dress myself and think for a long moment about leaving the house without Peeta, but that would probably hurt his feelings so I sit on the bed to wait for him.I will walk Peeta to the bakery and then make my way to the medicine factory where my mother is currently working as a consultant. I offered her the guest room at our house, but it must be full of too many difficult memories for her. She told me that she needed to stay “on site”, but I have trouble believing that a medicine factory consultant needs to be immediately available all of the time. But it saves us from the awkwardness of sharing a space again after so many years apart, so I will play along even if it is cowardly of me.

As I wait for Peeta, I braid my wet hair loosely, just enough to to keep it off of my neck in the cool morning air. I know he likes it best when I leave it down, though he tries admirably not to show any indication of a preference, but right now it’s just too hot not to put it up. After I’m done braiding my hair, I hear the shower turn off. Peeta comes out pink and freshly shaven. I don’t know if anyone has ever seen him with stubble other than me – he shaves every morning before leaving our room. I wonder if that will change after the baby comes?

I don’t enjoy having these thoughts, constantly wondering which parts of my life will change for the worse once the baby is born, but they come to me on their own, without being asked. I wish I could be like Peeta, excited and eager about the birth of our first child, but I have so much of the fear and anxiety that he seems to be free from. He comes over to me and kneels between my legs, hands on my thighs. “What’s going on in there?” He knows me too well.

“Just thinking.” Hopefully he has enough to worry about with work that he won’t dig too deep.

“Are you having a bad day?” he asks, rising cautiously from the floor and coming to sit next to me on the bed. Peeta takes my hand and holds it carefully, the same way that he’s treating all of me right now. “Do you need me to stay home?” He sounds loving, resigned, and heartbroken all at once. It is difficult to accept that I can so easily make him this way.

“No,” I tell him. “Really, I’m just thinking. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you worried about something?” he prods. He’s not letting me off easily. He puts a hand to my face and the damp terry-cloth of the towel around his waist brushes against my thigh.

“I don’t think so,” I say. Peeta sighs, frustrated because I’m clearly keeping something from him. Suddenly, the words escape me without my permission. “Do you think you’ll love the baby more than you love me?” I ask. The silence that follows is loud in my ears. I can feel the heat rising, my face turning pink as I wait for Peeta to say something – anything.

“Is that what you’ve been thinking about?”

“No. Yes.” I groan and look at my hands twisting in my lap. “I want you to love the baby, of course I do. It’s just…I don’t want you to forget about me.”

Peeta uses my chin to direct me to look at him, doesn’t say anything, just stares into my eyes and shakes his head. “I could never love _anyone_ more than you,” he finally tells me. Peeta kisses me and pulls me close, twisting our bodies so that I can feel the still damp warmth of his torso. He reaches to remove my shirt and I still.

“What are you doing? You have to go to work.”

“Angie is opening today, she’ll be fine on her own for a little longer. Be late with me.” It’s hard to deny him when his heated breath tickles the skin on my neck. His fingers inch under my shirt, pressing against my skin.

“Okay,” I finally tell him, smiling widely. “But quickly,” I giggle in a way that only Peeta can make me giggle when he pushes me back onto the bed, looming over me. He makes quick work of removing the clothes that I only just put on and drops his towel to the floor with them, nuzzling his face against my skin, starting at my thighs and working his way up to my face, leaving tingling spots of pleasure dotted along my torso.

“I love the way you look at me when I bake something just for you,” he tells me, peppering kisses on my chest. “You probably don’t even know it, but it’s a special face that you don’t make for anyone else. And I love that when it’s cold outside, you always start a fire in the art room on Sundays, just in case I decide to paint. And I love the way you smile at me when I come to save you from Haymitch.”

“Don’t talk about Haymitch,” I tell Peeta, as he moves his hands to my centre, checking if I am ready for him.

He laughs genuinely at that. “Katniss,” he tells me, his voice low and husky, “I also love that you are having this baby with me. And it because it’s ours, I will love it more than I can imagine, I’m sure. But never anybody more than you.”

Peeta and I make love quickly but thoroughly. He will be late to the bakery and my mother will wonder why my braid is so haphazard, but I leave the house with a warm sensation and tingling skin that will last all morning. When we part at the market, Peeta’s lips linger a little longer than usual during our goodbye kiss.

That afternoon, Peeta is helping Thom and his fiancé, Pamela, move into Peeta’s old house. Thom hasn’t known Pamela for very long, but there is something between them that tells me they will be very happy together for a very long time. It is nice to finally see Peeta’s old home filled with some life. There is cleaning to do after so many years of disuse, which I can help Pamela with. Thom and Pamela together only have about 10 boxes of belongings and they will keep all of Peeta’s furniture, which has been sitting in the house ever since he left. So Peeta and Thom are in charge of bringing the boxes to the house on foot, which is a tedious and time consuming task, but we don’t know anyone who owns a vehicle. Thom has a small cart, which can fit about three of them at a time, so the two of them get to it right after work is done for the day, while Pamela and I start on preparing the top floor.

When Peeta left the house many years ago, we folded all of the linens and put them in the closet, but they will need to be washed. The furniture was covered, but the mattresses should still be beaten and everything else will need to be dusted and wiped down. Pamela and I are in the study, wiping down the empty bookshelves when she asks me, “Are you excited about the baby?” Pamela and I are not close, but I don’t dislike her. She is kind like Thom but much funnier, and she is a hard worker. She has been a good partner to him, and I am excited to have them as neighbours. An added perk is that, now that they have a bigger house, they can host our weekly dinners sometimes, too. I think about my answer before responding to Pamela, and maybe she thinks I’m not going to answer, because she says, rushed, “I’m sorry if that was inappropriate.”

“No, no, not at all. Just thinking,” I tell her, moving to start dusting the window sills. I find a dead spider and toss it out the open window. “I am very excited. Peeta and I waited for a long time before we decided to have a baby, but I think that might make it even more exciting. Because I know I’m ready.”

Pamela is opening the desk drawers, but there’s nothing inside, so she gives them a cursory wipe before dusting the ridiculously ornate desk lamp. “It’s so wonderful,” she says. “I’ve wanted a baby for a long time, but just never found the right person. I thought I might go my entire life without…” She smiles up at me, her eyes watery. “But with Thom, I think…he might be the guy.”

I grin at her. Pamela is a few years younger than me, so I’m surprised that she had already relegated herself to a childless life. But some people think that you have to have a baby at 19 or you’re behind schedule. Regardless, I’m glad that she’s found something with Thom. “He is a good egg,” I tell her. “I’m done in here, want to move on to the bathroom?”

After dropping off the first load of boxes, Peeta insists on helping Pamela move the mattresses to the back poach for beating. I’m barely pregnant and he’s terrified to let me do anything that might be “strenuous”. So instead, I go through the dresser and nightstand drawers in Peeta’s old bedroom to make sure there was nothing we missed when we moved him out so many years ago. Inside one of the dusty drawers, I find an old looking notebook with a battered cardboard cover. It looks like something from many moons ago, probably before Peeta and I went through the Hunger Games together. I wonder how long it has been here, forgotten. I know that I shouldn’t look through it without Peeta’s permission, I want to respect his privacy, but I’m also vividly curious. I sit down on the bed and open the front cover and there is a pencil sketch of a dog. It’s well drawn, not quite up to Peeta’s standards these days, but he has always had a natural talent for drawing, one that’s he honed over the years.

I continue to flip through the sketchbook and see drawings of flowers, houses, a street lamp. It looks like Peeta was just drawing everything, probably for the experience and practice of it. How lucky he was, I think, to have so much paper and pencil available then. What a different time. I swallow thickly and brush aside the haunting memory of needs unfulfilled – my life isn’t like that anymore, and my baby’s life will never be like that.

Around the middle of the sketchbook, the page falls open to reveal a drawing of a young girl who slightly resembles me. I’m not sure if it is me, or someone who Peeta accidentally transformed into me subconsciously. The girl is bending over to pick up a bag and her shirt has ridden up a bit to reveal a thin line of underwear. Sneaky little devil – Peeta got all the details, even the embarrassing ones. I hear footsteps coming up the hallway and turn to see Peeta enter the room. He has some sweat on his upper lip and grins at me. “Gonna need you to get up,” he says, still a little winded from hustling to get the other two mattresses outside. Then he sees what I’m looking at and stops short. He turns pale for a millisecond and then goes bright pink. There is some special power in knowing that after all this time, I can still embarrass my husband. “What did you find?” he asks – trying (and failing) to sound nonchalant.

“I think it’s an old sketchbook of yours. We must have missed it in the move the first time around.”

“Oh?”

I lay it out on the bed for him to see the picture of the girl. “Is that me?” I ask.

He rubs the back of his neck and offers me a pinched smile. “Yes?”

“Yes as in yes, it is, or yes because you don’t want me to know who it actually is?”

He gives a soft sort of laugh. “Oh no, it’s definitely you. I think you are…14 there. It’s kind of embarrassing to be caught out as a stalker of youth.”

I can’t help it, I laugh out loud. “I didn’t think you were a stalker. It’s sweet. But I don’t know why you had to draw my underwear.”

“Katniss,” he says, picking up the notebook and shoving it in his back pocket. “I was 14 years old.” Thom and Pamela walk in a second later, ready to help Peeta move the mattress so that the boys can head out for another load of boxes. I wink at Peeta before he heads out the door.

It takes two more afternoons to get everything fully cleaned and get Pamela and Thom fully moved in. We celebrate with an outdoor cook-out on the final day, and even invite Haymitch to join us. It will be nice to have another family in the neighbourhood, it might not feel so empty and desolate. And with Pamela and Thom getting married soon, I think we’ll be seeing a few more kids to join this little one in no time at all.


	11. Where would I be without you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss is pregnant with her second child and this pregnancy comes with a few more complications than her first one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning for you folks, this chapter does deal with blood (not graphic) and some high anxiety situations. See the end of the chapter for more notes. 
> 
> I also want to take this opportunity to thank all of you who have been reading and leaving kudos and kind comments. Writing stories like this is an absolute labour of love and it is so heartwarming to know that there are people out there enjoying it. <3

Katniss is having a difficult day today. She is in the bathroom, sick for the third time since she’s woken up, which was only a few hours ago. I am trying to stay calm, trying not to worry, but it’s difficult to keep this mask on right now. Katniss is eight months pregnant with our second child and has had much more difficulty with this pregnancy than she did with Willow. With Willow, she had some morning sickness for about a month (which her mother told us was normal), but with this baby…it hasn’t let up since we found out she was pregnant. She has difficulty keeping anything down, even simple bread. She seems to be losing more weight with every passing day and I’m starting to be concerned about her health – could she become malnourished from this?

Regardless of how I’m feeling, though, I am making an effort not to show Katniss my concern because it would only make her feel even more stressed. So I act like constant vomiting is totally normal, rubbing her back when I can, and caring for our two-year-old infant when she needs me to. Right now, I’m changing Willow’s diaper, and she frowns at me, so serious. “Mommy?” she asks, and tugs at my heart strings a little more than usual.

“Not right now, baby. Mommy’s sick.”

She wiggles her hips to help me get her pants back on, tiny pink things that Katniss’ mom sent on the train. They are so bright against the linen cloth that Katniss used to make a changing pad for Willow that it almost looks unnatural. “Sick?” Willow asks me, reaching out her arms so that I can pick her up.

“Yes, her tummy is upset.” I don’t know how else to explain it to her, but I guess that works because she nods her head. I carry her down to the living the room – she doesn’t need me to, she’s fully capable of walking down the stairs on her own, if a little slow. But I know that soon there will be a brand new baby who needs a lot of attention from Katniss and I, so I want to eat up every moment I get with Willow right now. She winds her tiny little arms around my neck and presses her face against mine. I guess she is enjoying our time together, too.

When we get to the living room, I set her down with some wooden blocks. She starts playing immediately and then seems to think for a moment, turns and holds one out to me. “Play?” she asks.

I frown. I want to play with her – she has been so good and patient with me all day as I run between her and her mother. But I should go check on Katniss; she hasn’t made any noise in the last twenty minutes or so and I am concerned about her. “You play with your blocks for now, baby,” I tell Willow, reaching out to run my hand through her dark hair. “I’m going to go and check on mommy.”

“Okay, papa.” She’s such a good girl, turning back to her blocks and starting to stack them into a wobbly tower.

I feel a rising sense of dread filling me as I climb the stairs to our bedroom. Katniss is usually sick for about fifteen minutes or so and then she comes back out to join Willow and I. This time, though, she’s been in the bathroom for far longer and now she isn’t making any noise at all. The bathroom door is shut when I get upstairs – maybe she is having a shower or something. I knock on the door, not wanting to invade her privacy. If she’s shut the door, she obviously wants it. “Katniss?”

After a moment, with no response, fear rears its ugly head again. “Katniss, I’m going to open the door if you don’t say anything. Are you okay?”

I count to ten. Still nothing. So I open the door slowly, giving her the chance to yell at me if she wants me out. But she doesn’t say anything. I find her on the floor in front of the toilet, panicking and silent. Her mouth is moving like she wants to say something, but nothing is coming out. She has a towel draped over her lap and is fisting the fabric in her hands.

“What’s going on?” I try to keep my voice calm, for her, but it’s very difficult.

“I think something’s wrong with the baby,” she finally says.

“What do you mean?” I kneel down next to her, reach out for towel, and she seems to flinch away.

“Don’t!” she says suddenly.

“Katniss, what’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

“There’s a lot of blood,” she finally says, and I feel the air rush out of me like I’ve been punched in the gut. “I don’t want you to have an episode. You can’t see.”

“I’ll be fine,” I tell her, knowing that I can’t guarantee that.

“Please, Peeta, you can’t see. It’s…it’s too much.”

Maybe it’s fine, I think hopefully. Maybe it’s just a little blood and Katniss is overreacting. But I’m fooling myself because Katniss has never been one to overreact about blood. “Just let me see,” I insist, reaching out to grip the towel. She doesn’t resist and lets me drag it away from her body.

Katniss parts her legs slightly so that I can see. She just has her underpants on and they are soaked with blood. It’s smeared on her inner thighs and there’s a small pool of between her legs. I swallow thickly. I’m not going to have an episode, but I am terrified. I reach out to grip her shoulder. “It’s going to be okay,” I tell her weakly. We both know there’s no way I can know that for sure. “We need to get you to the hospital.”

“I want to have this baby here,” she whimpers. I can tell she is about to cry but trying not to.

“That’s not an option anymore,” I tell her, trying to sound as sympathetic as possible. My heart and mind are racing. I will take Willow over to Thom’s and Pamela’s so that they can watch her while I take Katniss to the hospital. But she can’t walk – I will have to carry her. It’s ten minutes from the house, but will take longer with me carrying Katniss – she’s not overly heavy, but she will still weigh me down somewhat. “Can you stand up?” I ask her.

“I’m scared to.” She looks so broken – I haven’t seen her this way in years. Her eyes are full of unshed tears and her mouth twists like she’s waiting to wail. Her hands twist the towel and she pulls her legs together tight. I can still see some of the blood and am starting to feel sick. What if we lose the baby? What if I lose _Katniss_? I shake my head – I can’t think that way right now.

“Okay,” I tell her, squatting down to pick her up. “Let’s put some clean pants on you. Then I’ll take Willow to Pamela’s and we can go.”

“I can’t walk to the hospital, Peeta. Can’t you get the midwife?”

Time is of the essence here. I’ve never seen anything like this, but I am pretty sure that this much blood while pregnant is _not normal_. “I don’t think the midwife can handle this, Katniss. And I’m not risking the time it will take for her to get here. I’ll carry you to the hospital.” I set her down on the bed – I will take care of cleaning the bedding later.

“Peeta…”she sounds sad, exasperated, desperate. She is pleading with me.

“Katniss, please,” I wipe at my eyes while I pull out a pair of sweatpants for her. “I’m just trying to make the best choices that I can, here.”

“Okay,” she sighs wetly. She lets me help her with the pants and then I pick her up and carry her downstairs, setting her on the couch. Ever the people pleaser, Willow is still diligently playing with her blocks, just as I left her.

“I have to take you over to Pamela’s house, baby,” I tell her, squatting down to her level.

“Mommy?” she asks, looking to Katniss who is panic stricken on the couch, hands running anxiously over her belly.

“Mommy will be okay,” Katniss says, her voice surprisingly even. “I think I’m ready to have this baby. I just need Papa’s help.”

Willow studies Katniss for a moment, her tiny eyebrows furrowed before nodding. “Okay.”

“I’ll come back and get you as soon as I can,” I promise Willow as I scoop her up and head out the front door. I knock on Pamela’s door, but no answer comes, even after a second and third desperate attempt. I don’t have time to wait, so I head over to Haymitch’s where I don’t bother knocking on the door; I just let myself in. He is on the couch, watching something on TV that he turns off as soon as I walk in.

“Ever heard of knocking?”

“Katniss is ready to have the baby,” I tell him, trying not to let Willow hear the nerves in my voice, but making a face that should show Haymitch something is wrong. “She wasn’t feeling well this morning, and this afternoon she had a lot of b-l-e-e-d-i-n-g.”

“What’s that?” Willow asks, letting me set her down on the couch next to Haymitch. He blanches at my spelling and wraps his arm around Willow.

“Nothing, kiddo. Just means it about time to meet that little brother or sister of yours.” He turns to look at me. “Do you need help getting her to the hospital?”

“No, we’ll be fine. I need you to keep an eye on Willow, please.” I make an apologetic face. “I don’t know how long we’ll be. You can get her toys or food or whatever from our house if you need. I’ll leave it unlocked.” I need to leave. I feel my body migrating towards the door.

“Go, kid,” Haymitch says. “We’re gonna have a great time, aren’t we?” He tickles Willow who giggles in turn. I run back home as fast as I can, though speed is certainly not my forte. Katniss is still on the couch, looking paler than before.

“I think I bled through my pants,” she tells me. “It might have gotten on the couch.”

“It’s fine,” I tell her, because the fucking couch cushion is the least of my worries right now. I scoop her up and she gasps, wrapping her arms around my neck. It feels like a strange parallel of carrying Willow down the stairs such a short time ago. “Let’s go.” I walk out the front door, shimmying sideways so that she doesn’t hit her head. I go as fast as I can, working not to jostle her.

“Peeta?” she says, fingers moving against my neck, damp and cool.

“Shhh,” I tell her, breathing heavily.

“Peeta, if it’s…it you have to choose…save the baby.”

“Katniss, don’t talk like that.” My heart clenches, a lump forms in my throat.

“I’m serious. This is…this is important. You need to make sure that the baby lives.”

I’m not going to cry, I tell myself. I adjust my grip on her and keep walking, slowing down just a little. There’s a lump in my throat that I have to work to swallow. “I can’t do this without you,” I tell her.

“Do what?”

“This. Life. Living! Katniss, please don’t make me choose to lose you. I need you. Willow needs you.”

“You don’t need me,” she says, sounding almost dreamy. I am worried that she might be losing consciousness.

“This is silly,” I finally say. “I don’t know why we’re talking about this. I’m not going to have to choose.” It’s hard to talk, my breath coming heavily between every other word.

“Please just promise me.” She says, her voice thick. Her words are starting to slur together.

“Stay with me, Katniss. We’re almost there.” I chance a glance at her. Her eyes are closed and her lips are almost white. “Shit.”

“Promise,” she whispers.

“I promise I will do what I have to,” I finally say. I can see the hospital now, a tiny building with room for about ten patients. I hope that they have what they need to save my wife and my unborn baby. But if I have to choose one of them to save, I know who it will be. Katniss may never forgive me, but I would rather have her alive and hating me than dead and loving me.

She lets out a huff of air like she knows what my promise actually means.

I use my back to push open the swinging door of the hospital. “I need help!” I yell. Katniss doesn’t stir in my arms and that is particularly worrisome. “Please,” my voice catches in my throat. “I need help, now!”

A nurse runs up to where I am, she waving someone else over. They bring a hospital gurney over and let me lay Katniss down on it. “She’s pregnant,” I tell them, pointlessly. The baby bump is large enough on her thin frame that anyone would know that was the case.

The nurse is talking to someone else and then they are pulling Katniss away from me. I try to follow, but the nurse stops me with a hand on my arm. “They’re going to do everything they can for her,” she promises. “Why don’t you come and have a seat?”

I don’t want to sit down. I want to be with my wife. If these are the last moments of her life, I’m not spending them sitting in a metal chair while she’s in a hospital room. “I was in the room when she had our last baby,” I tell the nurse, like this is at all similar to Willow’s at home birth.

“This must be very difficult for you, then,” the nurse says. She even sounds like she cares. “Why don’t you get cleaned up – I’ll get you a different shirt to wear and then we can fill out some paperwork together. After that, the doctor might be ready to talk to you.”

“A different shirt?” I look down at mine and see it is saturated in Katniss’ blood. If anyone else walks into the hospital, I will probably scare them to death. Poor choice of words. She gives me one of the shirts that the doctors and nurses wear, a navy blue shirt with short sleeves, and directs me to the bathroom. I splash some cold water on my face and crumple my shirt up into a ball, dropping it into the bin. There would be no way to get those stains out.

When I come back into the waiting room, the nurse smiles gently at me, holds out a clipboard. “Can you please fill this out? Just whatever you know.” I walk over to sit down, staring down at the clipboard. The words on the paper start to blur. I think I know everything there is to know about Katniss. I know how she likes her tea, the way that she folds her clothes – even her underwear – so that it is easy to see what is what in the drawer, the way that she plays with Willow – quiet and gentle – just the way Willow likes, the fact that she likes her French toast without syrup but with powdered sugar, the way that she always eats mashed potatoes last – no matter what else is on her plate. Unwittingly, I have started to cry. Fat, heavy tears roll down my face and a sudden sob escapes me. I drop the clipboard to the floor and curl over, face in my hands. Nobody else knows what Katniss looks like when she wakes up in the morning from a night with no nightmares, hair mussed and sleep shirt slipping off one shoulder, no-one else knows that she loves creampuffs without the custard filling, and no-one else knows what her mouth tastes like. My shoulders shake as I try to control the crying, but I’m not being very quiet.

A gentle, warm hand presses against my shoulder. I jerk back to see the nurse looking down at me. “The doctor is going to do everything she can for your wife,” she tells me. Her voice is gentle and steady – she clearly has practice with this.

I nod at her and wipe my face with the back of my hand. “You must think I’m an idiot.”

“Not at all,” she says, picking up the clipboard from the floor. The pen has rolled away somewhere, but she doesn’t seem worried. “I know how much you love her,” she says. “I have seen you two for years in the District. It’s clear that you are very happily married.” She sits on the chair next to me and crosses her legs. “Why don’t I help you with this?” she offers.

“That would be…that would be great. Thank you,” I sniffle, trying not to sound like a child.

An hour after the nurse helps me fill out the paperwork, an hour of sitting in that uncomfortable chair, wondering what will happen to my wife and my child, a woman comes into the room and looks at me. “Mr. Mellark?” I’m the only one in the room, so she must know it’s me that she’s looking for.

“Yes?”

“Please come with me.”

I swallow thickly and push myself out of my chair. The nurse nods at me reassuringly from behind her desk. “How’s Katniss?” I ask, following the doctor down the hall. “The baby?”

“Katniss was very unwell when you brought her in,” the doctor says. “It’s good that you brought her here instead of calling the midwife.” The doctor stops walking beside a closed door. “She was very weak and the surgery put a lot of stress on her system.”

I press a palm to the side of my head, about to fist my fingers in my hair. It’s an old coping mechanism, a holdover from when I had episodes on a regular basis. Now it’s just something I do when my feelings are too much to be contained inside of me. “Is she…will she be…okay?”

“She’s asleep right now. She is stable, but we won’t know for sure how she was effected until she wakes up.”

“The baby?”

“Your son is very healthy. He’s doing very well – we’ve just finished cleaning him up. Would you like to meet him?”

“My son?”

“Yes, Mr. Mellark. You have son.”

She opens the door to the room. Katniss is resting in the hospital bed. She looks just like she does when she’s sleeping, except that I can see the pink of the hospital gown peak out from under the blanket. Next to the bed is a bassinet, and I walk over slowly – scared, for some reason. Inside is a small but chubby baby. He’s asleep, too, swaddled in a peach coloured blanket, face slightly purple – just like Willow’s was when she was first born. He’s not much smaller than she was, even though Katniss carried Willow for almost four weeks more.

“I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” the doctor says. “Just push this button here if you need anything. Otherwise a nurse will come by in about 20 minutes to check on Mrs. Mellark.”

I nod at her and then move to pick the baby up as the doctor shuts the door. He feels like nothing in my arms and barely fusses as I press him to my chest. His eyelids flutter and then settle as I situate myself next to Katniss on the bed. I’ll let her rest, but for now, just being close to her body is reassuring. Hearing her soft breaths, the beep of the heart monitor, and feeling the warmth of her skin next to mine. The baby coos in my arms and I look down at him, his eyes barely open as he wriggles.

“Mmmm.” Katniss murmurs next to me, rustling the blankets as she shifts. “Hi there.” She’s groggy, but pulls a hand out from under the blanket and rests it on my arm.

“Are you okay?”

“Sleepy.”

“I was so…worried.” I suck in a gasp of wet air. “Katniss, I thought…I was…I can’t lose you.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” she says, eyes still closed.

“I’m serious.”

“Me, too.” She opens her eyes and tugs on my shirt-sleeve, pulling me down for a kiss. Then she moves her hand to squeeze the baby’s feet through the thick blanket. “He sure is cute, isn’t he?”

I nod and trace the shape of his face with a finger. “What should we call him?”

Katniss goes silent for a moment, thinking. We hadn’t agreed on baby names before he was born – the same way we didn’t agree on names for Willow until she was born. Finally, she says, quietly, “What do you think about Rye? For your brother?”

I blink. “Really?” Katniss knows that Rye was the family member with whom I was closest, the person whose death I mourned the most. Our relationship wasn’t anything like the one she had with Prim, but it was still important to me.

“Yeah, what do you think?”

I smile down at the baby, my eyes watering. “I think it’s perfect. Rye Mellark. What do you think?” The baby sniffles but otherwise keeps sleeping – I’ll take it as a note of his approval. I turn to Katniss now, her eyes already drooping again. “You really scared me,” I tell her. “I thought I might lose both of you.” Katniss blinks, trails her hand along my arm. “Never do that again, okay?”

“I promise I’ll do what I can,” she grins and then snuggles into my side, ready to sleep again. When she wakes, we will call Haymitch so that he can bring Willow over to meet her new brother. But for now, Rye and I will watch over his mother as she sleeps, just the two of us. 

After three days, Katniss is allowed to come home. She and Rye are still recovering, but they’re well enough that Dr. Mishler (with whom Katniss has grown surprisingly close) says that they are ready to go home as long as someone is there to care for them. I’m more worried about Katniss than Rye, to be honest. After Willow’s birth, Katniss was up and about in two days – refusing any help with anything. But Dr. Mishler has made her promise to stay on bed rest for at least three more days, and even after that she can’t pick up anything heavier than Rye for at least six weeks. While Katniss agreed with Dr. Mishler, I think there might be some fights springing up in our future if I try to enforce the direction but I’m willing to do whatever I need to do to keep my wife safe.

Dr. Mishler gives us a ride home in the hospital’s ambulance – it feels weird to arrive home in a vehicle when I’ve never seen a car near our house. The doctor helps Katniss into bed while Willow and I get Rye settled into his bassinet. It takes me a moment to realize that the house has been cleaned – the bloody towel and clothing that I left on the floor are gone, the bed has been remade with linens that I don’t recognize, and the bassinet has been set up with a small teddy bear inside. I haven’t been home since rushing out to take Katniss to the hospital, but she still asks if I somehow did this. I shake my head – it must have been Pamela and Thom; it certainly wasn’t Haymitch.

Dr. Mishler leaves after reminding Katniss about the rules of her freedom from the hospital and giving Willow a hug. At the door, she tells me to watch Katniss closely for any bleeding or discomfort. “She should be fine, but she is still in a vulnerable state. I’ve asked the midwife to check in on her tomorrow.”

I shift from foot to foot and swallow. This whole time I’ve felt some small sense of guilt – like it’s my fault that Katniss almost died, and while I appreciate the support of the doctor and the nurses and, now, the midwife, I’m starting to feel like they don’t trust me to have my wife’s best interests in mind, which somehow compounds that feeling of guilt that has been in the back of my mind since I first found Katniss on the bathroom floor.

“Hey,” Dr. Mishler reaches out and puts her hand on my shoulder, “I know you’re doing everything you can for her, but a trained professional’s support never hurts, right?” It’s like she read my mind.

I nod mutely and put my hand over top of hers where it still rests on my shoulder. “Thank you for everything,” I say, trying to speak clearly past the lump in my throat.

“It’s my job,” she shrugs, and I let her say it even though I’m pretty sure it’s not in her job description to drive her patients home.

As I’m waving goodbye to the doctor, I see Pamela coming over with a package in her arms and two little ones in tow. She’s pregnant and just about ready to deliver, but she’s still managed to make some food and package it up for us. She smiles weakly at me as she hefts herself up the front stairs and passes over a couple casserole dishes of food. “In the oven at 375 for half an hour,” she tells me, resting her hands on her belly. “How is she?”

“Resting.” I turn to let Pamela and her twins inside. Becky and Sadie are about Willow’s age, so I call her down to play with them while Pamela and I chat. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No, thank you. I really just wanted to come over and check on Katniss.”

“Thank you for bringing these.” I put the food in the icebox while Pamela gets the kids set up in the living room.

She follows me into the kitchen and puts her hands on the back of a chair. “I hope it’s okay that I came over and tidied up. I thought,” she looks like she’s going to cry and I’m not sure what to do with that, so I stay beside the icebox. “I thought how difficult it would be to come home to that if things…didn’t work out.” She really _sounds_ like she’s going to cry now, so I finally walk over and hug her, because it’s the only think I can think to do.

“Thank you,” I tell her, really meaning it.

She pulls back from the hug and runs her hands up and down my shoulders, like she’s trying to comfort me. Pamela is so different from Katniss, soft in so many of the areas that Katniss is hard, gentle in ways that Katniss struggles to be. But they are both so thoughtful, in their own way. “I’m so glad that they’re both okay. I can’t wait to meet that little boy.” She sniffles and wipes at the tears on her face – not hastily like Katniss usually does, but slowly, like she’s unashamed that they’re there. “You let me know if you ever need a hand with Willow, we’d be happy to take her for a while.”

I nod and walk her out, saying goodbye to the twins. Once I shut the door, it’s just me and my little family. Home, together, and safe – finally safe. I scoop Willow up in my arms and she rests her head on my shoulder. “I love you baby,” I tell her, feeling that stubborn lump of emotion return to my throat.

“Can we go upstairs and see the baby?” She is already in love with her little brother after only a few days of getting to know him.

“Of course, but we have to be quiet so we don’t wake mommy.” But when we get upstairs, Katniss is already awake. She is holding Rye in her arms, smiling down at his chubby little face. She gestures for Willow to join her on the bed – and our little girl is so attentive and cautious we don’t even have to remind her to be careful. Katniss wraps her free arm around Willow and then reaches out to take my hand. Standing at the side of the bed and looking down at the three of them, it doesn’t escape me how close I came to losing half of my family just a few days ago. I’m feeling a lot of emotions right now – gratitude, shock, latent fear…a few unbidden tears roll down my face and I try to channel Pamela’s energy, wiping at them slowly and without shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that in most Western medical situations these days, a doctor would be required to speak to someone’s next of kin prior to making a medical decision unless it was an absolute emergency. However, I wanted to illustrate the remaining vestiges of the Panem structure in which the Capitol doled out the decisions and the citizens just had to deal with it. The medical staff were, I’m assuming, trained and maybe worked in the Capitol - meaning that the structure of the care given likely would have aligned with the thought processes from the Capitol. That, in addition to the fact that medicine takes a long time to change its cultural and practical attitude, made me feel that it would be unlikely that in a situation like this Peeta would have been given the opportunity to make much of a decision about what happened to Katniss. I am also by no means a doctor, but relied on the knowledge of my mother who had an almost identical pregnancy/delivery experience for information about what timelines might have looked like. I know that every pregnancy is different and wanted to rely on someone’s real experience to make this feel as genuine as possible. I hope you enjoyed!


	12. Just like it was.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A train. A painting. A wedding.

Peeta is in our room packing his suitcase. I am in the living room having an internal argument. Should I call my mother and ask her if we can drop the kids off with her in 4? Or should I let Peeta go to Delly’s wedding alone? I still haven’t decided, even though he told me about the wedding weeks ago, back when the invitation came in the mail. I know it’s silly, especially because Delly is marrying someone, but it’s hard not to be jealous of the relationship that they had, one that continues to hold strong after all these years. A large part of me wants him to go alone so that I don’t have to see him enjoying happy memories with Delly. Still another part of me is anxious to let Peeta go alone. What if an old memory, an old spark, is flamed? What if something happens and I’m not there to stop it?

Finally, it’s our eldest, Willow, who makes up my mind. “Please mama,” she begs, watching me pace back and forth in our living room. “We want to go see Gramma! It’s been so long.” Rye nods next to his sister – working together and against me.

“Okay,” I whisper, turning to go up the stairs. I will need to pack my bags and theirs quickly. We can stop in at Thom’s on the way to the train station to make sure he will check in on Haymitch while we’re gone. “Stay here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Yes, mama,” they say obediently. I can’t help but smirk – that sort of obedience only comes when they know they can get something out of it.

Peeta is in our room, sitting next to my open suitcase where it lays on the bed. He’s grinning at me when I come in. “Took you long enough.” I blink at him in surprise. “There is no way you were going to let me go to Delly’s wedding alone. I already packed the kids’ bag. Don’t take long.” He gets off the bed and leaves to go downstairs. Part of me, the small, petty, spiteful part, wants to tell him I’m not going. But that wouldn’t be fair to the kids and they haven’t done anything wrong.

So instead, I start throwing clothing haphazardly into my suitcase – a few different outfits because the weather can be fickle at this time of the year. I still don’t relish the idea of going to Delly’s wedding, but I am able to admit (at least to myself) that I am starting to relish the idea of getting three full days alone with Peeta. We don’t get much alone time here, and I’m selfishly looking forward to not having to compete with my children for my husband’s affection.

It doesn’t take me long to pack, but by the time I get back downstairs Peeta already has the kids set to go: toys put away, coats buttoned up, big smiles on their small pink faces. He slings his bag over his shoulder so that he can carry my bag and the children’s too, leaving me to hold their hands as we journey to the train station. Haymitch is outside, so Peeta tells him that we will make sure that Thom and Pamela check in on him while we’re gone, and my children giggle when Haymitch tells Peeta to “go fuck yourself”. It’s nothing they haven’t heard before, but Peeta still grimaces at Haymitch as we walk away. I am sure I see Haymitch smirking at me once Peeta turns his back. Thom agrees, after a little cajoling, to check in on Haymitch at least once while we’re gone and without further incident, we board the train.

The children have never been on a train before, so while this is a routine enough experience for Peeta and I, it is unsurprising when their excitement rubs off on us just a little. Willow is sitting ramrod straight in her chair next to Peeta, staring out the window with anticipation (even though we haven’t started moving yet). Meanwhile, I’m working to convince Rye to stay in his own seat. We can see the food station form where we are and he is begging to go and take a look.

“We have to be sitting when the train starts, but we can go look after that,” I promise him, hoping it will be enough for him. But he is impatient, his body vibrating with joy. I look to Peeta, pleading for support. He grins at me and shrugs his shoulders. This excitement is something Peeta and I never got to experience. When we were our children’s ages, a ride on the train was a one way ticket to the grave. It is difficult to try and dampen their happiness when we know what a gift it truly is. The train starts and Rye claps excitedly while his sister tries to keep an eye on the (very slowly) moving landscape outside. A woman a few rows down, who I don’t recognize, looks at my small family quizzically. I just shrug and grin in response.

“Why haven’t we done this before?” Willow asks.

“Well,” Peeta says. I can tell he’s trying to think of how he can express the years of pain and hurt for someone who has never experienced anything even remotely close to what we went through. “I guess we never knew how much you’d enjoy it.” He smiles at me, proud of his answer and I think it is a good one, too. Who, having grown up the way that Peeta and I did, would ever be able to imagine the awe that this would bring to our children’s faces?

Rye is getting bored as the scenery starts to slip by so quickly that it blurs. He yawns and rests his head my shoulder. “Want to look at the snacks?” I ask, but he is already asleep.

When we make our first stop, the kids are excited to see their grandmother, but sad about getting off of the train. We promise the ride home will be just as exciting and then Peeta and I get back on, waving goodbye until we can’t see them through the window anymore. “Are you excited for some alone time?” Peeta asks me. His blond eyelashes shine in the sunlight while he takes my hand in his, resting them both on his lap.

“Am I ever,” I murmur, only half joking.

We sit in companionable silence for a while and then he says, “I’m really glad you came. This would have been such a lonely trip without you.”

“You wouldn’t have gone without me,” I tell him, mostly certain I’m right.

“I guess you’ll never know.”

I haven’t been to District 8 since the Victory Tour; it feels like it was in another lifetime that I last stepped off of this train and onto this platform. And it’s so very different now. Families wait around to board, children chasing each other, two women chatting with one another where they sit on a bench. The scene is similar to that in 12, but for some reason this hits me harder. It’s because I’ve seen 12 slowly shift and change over the years, but this is my first exposure to the new version of 8. The contrast of reality against my memory is almost too much to take in. I wonder if Peeta notices when I reach up to wipe at my watering eyes. He has been back once since the Victory Tour, to visit Delly when she was very sick. I try not to think of that time, because I feel sadness for Delly alongside my regular and useless jealously, which just makes me feel guilty and then I feel mad about feeling guilty and it’s just a vicious cycle of negative feelings.

So instead I focus on Peeta, who is waiting as a train worker unloads the baggage, watching dutifully for my bag and his. His hands are in his pockets as he watches, sunlight catching in his hair. I can’t see his eyelashes from this far away, but I know if I was right next to him, they would be invisible anyways. My husband may be older now than when we married, but he is every bit as handsome as he was on the day…maybe even more so. Unable to restrain myself, I walk up behind him and thread my arms through his, pressing my chest to his back and clasping my hands together in front of his abdomen.

“Oh, hello,” he says, hands coming to rest on top of mine. “This is a surprise.”

“A good surprise?” my response is muffled in his shirt.

“A _very_ good surprise.” Once we get our luggage, we walk to the hotel. I wouldn’t be surprised if Delly had offered to let Peeta stay with her, but he is definitely of the mind that staying in a hotel is his wife’s preference and he’s not wrong. It’s a small and nondescript building, nothing like the ones we have stayed in when in the Capitol. This is much more in line with my preferences. The young man working at reception is quiet but friendly as he checks us in and takes Peeta’s money. He offers to carry our bags to our room, but there is another guest waiting behind us and we are more than capable of getting there on our own. Peeta waves him off politely and we head up the stairs to the second floor. The room is sparsely decorated, full of natural light as the sun sets outside.

The wedding is tomorrow, so Peeta and I will need to fill tonight with our own activities. “Delly told me there’s a good restaurant about fifteen minutes’ walk from here,” Peeta says from where he sits on the bed, watching me hang up the dress I brought for tomorrow. I tap at the fabric a bit, willing the travel-wrinkles to come out magically.

I turn and blink at him. It’s strange to think of eating in a restaurant, something that I’ve only ever associated with the Capitol, in a place that feels so much more like home. It feels surreal and it’s difficult to wrap my mind around it. Peeta’s staring at me, waiting for some kind of response. “Yeah, okay,” I finally say. I finish unpacking my suitcase and then splash some cold water on my face while Peeta unpacks his bag, hanging up his charcoal suit – the same one he wore on the day we were married – next to my dress. When I finish drying the water off of my face, Peeta is standing next to me in the bathroom, smiling at my reflection in the mirror.

“Ready?”

I nod at him and so we leave the hotel, holding hands in a way that probably looks young and childish to anyone who is watching us, but I can’t find it in myself to mind. We don’t really talk – Peeta and I are more comfortable in one another’s silences these days than we used to be. It’s cool outside as we step into the restaurant and I’m regretting leaving my sweater at the hotel – it will be chilly when we walk back after eating.

A young lady is at the front, she walks us into a small room with a few tables that have other people eating – a few couples, a family of five. My heart tightens for a moment, thinking of how much Willow and Rye would have loved this part of the adventure, too. Peeta squeezes my hand, like he is reading my mind. We follow her to table by the window and she gives us each a menu to flip through. I am feeling hungry, all of a sudden, even though I didn’t really notice it on the way over. I decide on something warm and hearty…stew will be perfect. I don’t pay attention to what Peeta orders and then the menus are gone and we are just left with one another for company.

I feel strange – this day has been strange. I was upset earlier this morning and frustrated with Peeta for going to his friend’s wedding without seeming to be concerned about whether or not I was going to join him. A small amount of that resentment lingers still. But, at the same time, it’s not often that we get quiet time together these days, and I want to make the best of it. So I’m trying to focus on all of the things I like about him, letting myself indulge in the way my husband makes me feel when he smiles shyly at me, still that little flutter in my stomach after all these years.

“Do you remember your 20th birthday?” he suddenly asks, watching me drink some water. I nod.

“How could I forget? That was first time you made me a surprise cake.” I had gone hunting that day, oblivious to the fact that it was my birthday. When I got home, Peeta was sitting in the dining room, a green iced cake sitting on the table. He had ordered candles just for the occasion and sang happy birthday to me – just a little out of tune. Every year since, he has made sure that we have a vanilla cake, coated in green icing with three candles on it for my birthday. You don’t forget the start of a tradition that easily.

He laughs. “I was thinking more about what we did after the cake.”

I look at him quizzically, struggling to remember.

“That was the first time you let me paint you,” he says, raising an eyebrow. I remember now. The first time that I let Peeta paint me without any clothes on, he means. I remember how nervous I had been – some scars still not fully faded to silver on my skin, my stomach smoothed with the healthy eating we’d been doing for over a year. My hair grown out some, but not quite back to its original length. I remember laying on Peeta’s bed, the sheet wrapped around me, while he set up a canvas on his easel. I remember him telling me a few times that I had nothing to be nervous about but that we also didn’t have to do it if I didn’t want to. I remember finally telling him to hush. I remember the prickle of gooseflesh on my skin when he gently pulled the sheet off my body and dropped it to the floor. I remember the focus in his eyes when he started to sketch, the intention in his movements as he swiped the first strokes of paint across the canvas.

He hadn’t been able to finish the painting that night. After just an hour, I don’t think he had been able to take it anymore, watching me lay there, looking back at him. When we made love that night, it was swift and rough, Peeta had probably been aching for it for some time. We made love in his bed – which was a rare occurrence. I remember the squeak of the metal frame underneath of us, the feeling of his paint stained fingers as they moved heatedly over my skin. I remember Peeta whispering over and over again, “Beautiful, you’re beautiful.” I think that was the first time I had believed him since we had met in District 13 and he told me that I wasn’t “particularly pretty”.

“Yes,” I tell him, my voice low. “I remember now.”

A man brings out our dishes and sets them in front of us. Peeta got the stew, too. Peeta thanks the man and waits for him to walk away, before using his foot to brush my leg under the table. “I remember looking at you in that bed and wondering how the hell I would manage to finish that painting without coming in pants.”

My eyes widen and my mouth opens in shock. “Peeta!” It’s not usual for him to say things like that in public. He rarely even says them to me in private.

“You’re just as beautiful to me now as you were that day. Always have been.” That’s more like him.

I blink – not sure where this is coming from.

“Katniss, there’s nothing between Delly and me. Never has been, never will be. I’m glad you’re here because I love spending time with _you_. But I want you to know that there was never any risk of anything happening.”

I blush with shame. Are my motives that transparent? I guess for Peeta, they are. “I didn’t…that’s not…”

“It’s okay,” he says, smiling down at his stew. “I’m flattered that you’re still a little jealous. It means I must be doing something right.” He looks back up at me, eyes bright. “I love you – just you. Always have, always will. So, do you think we can just enjoy this trip? And not worry about any of that.”

I swallow thickly. Only Peeta can make me feel shame and embarrassment and love and arousal all at once. “Yes,” I finally say thickly. “Yes, I think so.” The stew is warm and delicious, rich like the stews that I make in the middle of winter to keep our family fed throughout the colder months. I feel foolish for having thought Peeta might do anything with Delly – we have been a family for years, first him and I, and then adding our two children to our home. We have been through so much together, things that Delly could never understand or imagine. It is silly of me to worry so constantly about Peeta. I shake my head and look at him, he’s grinning sadly at me from his spot at the table.

“What are you thinking?” he asks me, bumping my foot under the table.

“That I’m silly.” I shrug and wince.

“You are,” he laughs, quiet, low, and gentle. “I love that about you.” He thinks for a moment, swallowing another spoonful of the stew. “Do you think I could paint you again, like that? Like I did when we were 20?”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “When would we find the time? Between Rye and Willow, the bakery…”

“We’ll make the time.” He reaches across the table to brush his fingertips over my hand. “It’s important to me that we make the time.”

I shrug my shoulders. “Okay, sure.” I try to sound nonchalant, but I know he can see my small smile.

When we leave the restaurant and walk back to the hotel, Peeta lets me wear his sweater. He doesn’t complain about being cold even though I can tell he is. In our hotel room, he directs me towards the bed and undresses me quickly, but gently. Part of this feels like it’s the first time – part of it feels like it’s so familiar, I could do it in my sleep (and I have, a few times – barely awake and making love with what little time we have between us). Peeta kisses me all over, teeth pulling gently at my skin, leaving marks that will fade by tomorrow. My hands find their way beneath his shirt, pulling it over his head – his hair sticking up with static. I can’t help but smile at him.

He loses his pants quickly, coming back to join me on the bed where we are both bare and eager. I feel like I’m 20 all over again, hands seeking warmth in him with a desperation I haven’t known for some time. My skin flushes with heat when he shimmies down my body and presses his lips to my thigh. Peeta looks at me for permission, even though he knows he’s already got it, before mouthing over my centre. His tongue swipes in practiced circles before applying pressure in just the right spot. My hand goes, unwittingly, to the top of his head where I wrap my fingers in his hair. It’s soft and I know it will smell like our shampoo.

“Peeta,” I groan as he uses both hands to shift my hips closer to him, crunching the blankets of the bed beneath my body. He looks up at me after a moment, my body quivering with need, so close to the edge, and smiles devilishly, chin slick and pupils blown wide.

“Not yet,” he says, voice low and gravelly, louder than usual in the foreign room. He crawls back up towards me and presses himself against me. “Don’t you go anywhere without me.”

I giggle and then roll my eyes at my own silliness. “I love you more than anyone else in the world, Katniss Mellark. Do you believe me?” he asks, fingers pinching around the tender flesh of one of my nipples. It doesn’t hurt, but the skin peaks under the pressure, just the right amount of it. Peeta is well practiced.

I groan and grind my hips so that our groins slide against one another. “I want you inside me,” I plead, my hands scrabbling over his back.

“Tell me you believe me,” he teases, tweaking the other nipple, pulling his hips away from me to remove the friction I’m seeking.

“Of course I do.” I’m exasperated, desperate, eager, needy. I would be embarrassed if this was with anyone other than Peeta.

“I don’t know if I believe that you really do. Or if you’re just saying that?”

He’s adjusting his balance over top of me, and I take my opportunity, flipping our bodies so that he is lying on the bed and I am over top of him, straddling his abdomen. “I believe you,” I say, my own eyes dark as I grind down against him. He groans and the mischievous smile is quickly replaced by hunger. “You’ll just have to take my word for it.” I reach down between us and grasp Peeta, guiding him into me with a sigh of satisfaction. My hips move back and forth on him. His hands move to my waist and his thumbs move in jerky circles against my skin.

“Katniss,” he grunts, trying to move with me, but struggling to keep up with my pace.

“My turn now,” I tell him. Slowing my movements and sliding my hands up and down his chest. I clench my pelvic muscles and watch the face that he makes. This is one of my favourite positions to be in – on top of Peeta, calling the shots and being able to watch his reaction to the decisions I make. He lifts a hand up to cup one breast, shaky with want. I tip down to kiss him, wet and sloppy. I move my hips a little, wondering how long I can draw this out. We’re both so close, but it’s been a long time since we’ve had so much time to just _play_. I want this to last but can feel that it will be over soon. Peeta’s fingers skitter over my rib cage, tickling me. He moves his fingers to my centre, erratic but pleasing in the friction he applies.

“I’m gonna come,” he mutters, barely making sense, his words are so slurred.

I nod at him, words stuck in my throat. Me, too.

“Fuck, Katniss…” It comes out slow and low, the words tumbling out of him like molasses. It makes me want to laugh because Peeta almost never swears and it seems that I am one of the few people who can make him do so. But I can’t laugh. The coil of tension that has been building in my low abdomen is about to unfurl, I can feel a tingling in my toes and fingers, dampness behind my eyes. I curl my fingers into a fist against Peeta’s chest and pick up speed, clenching my muscles around him. He lets out a strange noise, a kind of cross between a groan and grunt. Me, too, Peeta, me, too.

Peeta comes, warm and pliant beneath me. I haven’t quite finished, so he slips out of me, rolls me onto my side and uses his hand to catch me up. My body is quivering when he’s done, Peeta wraps his arms around me, pressing kisses to my temple. “Every time with you is amazing, but that was definitely a top 10,” he murmurs.

I can’t help but laugh at him, even though I don’t disagree.


	13. Chores.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katniss and Peeta have the house to themselves, but there’s cleaning to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one’s a shorty (but hopefully a goody). The next two chapters will be longer for your reading enjoyment. Thank you all for the continued kind feedback and support. <3

Willow and Rye are spending the night at Thom and Pamela’s house and the kitchen feels conspicuously quiet. The silence is simultaneously unnerving and relaxing and I’m trying to focus on the pretzel buns that I am making for Willow to take to school tomorrow. I can hear Katniss upstairs, opening and closing cabinets – she must be putting laundry away. The floor creaks under her feet as I dust some flour off my hands. While Willow and Rye have both spent a night away from us, I still find myself missing the excited patter of feet following Katniss around upstairs, or the little pair of sticky hands trying to help me with my baking. Although the kids are older now, so those hands aren’t quite so sticky anymore.

Katniss comes downstairs just as I am putting the buns in the oven. Her hair, as long as I’ve ever seen it, is a mess. She’s wearing an old t-shirt of mine with paint stains all over it and old pair of cotton shorts filled with holes. She is sweaty from running around, tidying upstairs where the hot summer air is heaviest. She looks tired, but relieved, like she’s achieved her goals for the day. I am overcome with the urge to have sex with her. I’m not sure what comes over me, but I’m drawn to her like a magnet, desire already heating up inside of me.

“Peeta?” She asks, sounding only slightly unnerved when I step towards her. Two strides, and I’ve got my hands on her hips, pulling our bodies flush so that she can feel how much she turns me on without even trying. She’s barely said a word and I’m already half hard. She laughs then, a sort of surprised-flattered-shy laugh. It’s as though, after all these years, she still feels demure around me.

“You look gorgeous,” I tell her, because ‘hot’ doesn’t do her justice and ‘ravishing’ might scare her off.

“I’m a mess,” she sighs, breathily. “I just cleaned two bedrooms and two bathrooms. Those kids,” she’s still talking, but I want her to stop, to understand what I see. I press forward and cut off her words with a kiss.

“A gorgeous mess, then,” I whisper, reaching around to push my hands under the waistband of her shorts. I pause for a moment and look at her, asking for permission.

“Here?”

“Why not? I just cleaned the counter.” I grin. Katniss and I haven’t had sex in the kitchen in years. The last time was before Willow was born when we were having sex almost daily in an effort to get pregnant for the first time.

Katniss laughs loudly, a little nervously. Her cheeks are pink with what I have come to recognize as embarrassed anticipation. She looks around as though she is expecting someone to jump out from behind the furniture and yell “gotcha!”

“Okay,” she finally says, guiding me into the kitchen.

“If you don’t want to,” I start, even though I know she does, maybe almost as much as me.

“Shh,” she says, finger to my lips. “You’ll ruin the mood.” She grins at me as she pushes me back towards the counter, only stopping when I hit it with a quiet thud. Her hands are moving everywhere and feel like a warm fire. I want to feel her skin against mine. She must sense my desperation because she flashes me another grin and moves her fingers to unzip my fly. It’s agonizing, how slowly she undoes the zipper, and I can’t help my groan of relief when it’s finally undone.

“What do you think?” she asks, stepping away to remove her shorts. I wonder if she’s doing that tantalizing hip wiggle on purpose of if she’s really just trying to shimmy out of them. I decide it doesn’t matter when she moves to finish taking my pants and underwear off – I think I was supposed to be doing that, but haven’t moved from where she left me.

“What do I think?” I ask dumbly.

“The counter,” she whispers, lips touching my ear, “or the table?” She grips my dick lightly and moves slow.

Fuck, she’s in rare form today and I can’t get enough. But I’m also worried I’ll come in her hand if we don’t move quickly. “Are you ready?” I ask her, resting my hands on her hips. The room smells like baking bread and Katniss. Overwhelmingly of Katniss. I’m so hard, I’m aching. She bites her lip and blushes, smiling at me, nods. “The counter,” I manage to blurt out then, spinning to bend her over the surface. Even after years of marriage, two kids later, I can’t get enough of her. She lets out a little huff and wriggles her ass back against me as she gets situated on the counter. I slide in quickly, unable to help the little noise that escapes my throat when she flexes around me. “Katniss…”

She moans and moves a bit, begs me in the way that she knows I like. “Peeta…”I could lose myself in her, like this. The way her shirt bunches up under her armpits, her fingertips against the back splash, her thighs on mine, the thick smell of her air. It smells like Katniss, just Katniss and…burning pretzel buns?

“Shit!” I suddenly realize the pretzel buns have been in too long. They won’t be burnt to a crisp, but they certainly won’t be up to standard.

“What?” Katniss sounds worried when I pull away from her. I must look like a real fool, shuffling over to the oven with my pants around my ankles.

“I forgot about the buns!” I grab some oven mitts to pull them out, setting the hot sheet on the stove top to cool. They look fine, not overdone – I must have caught them just in time. Katniss has slid off the counter and is sitting on the floor, laughing loudly. “What’s so funny?” I ask, knowing it could be a number of things.

She smiles ruefully at me. “We can’t even have spontaneous sex properly!” She wipes a few tears from her face.

Of course we can, I think. I shake off my pants and leave them there in the kitchen, stooping to pick Katniss up off the floor. She gives a slight squeak of protest, but wraps her arms around my neck and lets me carry her into the guest room where I drop her heavily onto the bed. “I’ll show you spontaneous, Mrs. Mellark.”

When I wake the next morning, it takes me a moment to recall where I am and why I’m here. In the guest room, of course. Katniss and I made love here last night. We must have fallen asleep immediately after because my prosthetic is still on and my leg is aching. Katniss stirs next to me but doesn’t wake when I sit up to remove it. I can see it’s barely dawn outside, so we’ve got at least a few more hours before the kids come home. Katniss makes a groaning sound behind me and her cool fingertips reach out to brush my back. “Don’t get up yet,” she pleads.

“Wasn’t planning on it.” I rest my prosthetic against the side of the bed and crawl back under the blanket with her. “Good morning,” I tell her, moving my arm so that she can settle against my chest. The sunlight is just bright enough at this point for me to see how tangled her hair is from last night’s escapades. She cranes her neck back to kiss me. I feel, for what must be the millionth time, like I am living another man’s life. A better man’s life. I kiss Katniss back, my hand trailing over the scarred skin of her shoulder.

“I love you,” she tells me.

“I love you, too.”


	14. Who you were...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The anniversary of Panem’s independence is a day for family, a day for celebrating, and - unfortunately - a day for remembering.

Today is national Independence Day. It’s a celebration of the day that the Districts broke out from under the powerful control of the Capitol. We only started recognizing it as a nation ten years ago – I think it took some time for people to be able to move past the pain and find a way to honour those that we had lost. Independence Day means that all of the shops are closed and everybody has the day off work; it means that there will be a festival in the town centre and President Paylor will give a speech on the television today; it also means that I get to spend a full day with my family – no bakery, no hunting, no school, just the four of us together.

We wake up at the regular time, unable to shut off our biological clocks even though we could sleep in today if we wanted to. Willow and Rye are already awake and playing in the backyard when I head downstairs to make breakfast, and I wave at Pamela on her front porch, watching her youngest play in a jumper. With twins that are Willow’s age, a daughter that is Rye’s age, twins that are four, and the baby in the jumper, that makes six kids for Thom and Pamela. It is funny to me that such a short time ago, she was so worried that she wouldn’t have any babies, and now her house is overflowing with them. A natural homemaker and compassionate mother, I think Pamela is genuinely happy with her very full home even if the idea of that many children terrifies me. She grins and waves back at me, raising her cup of coffee in offer of some company.

Peeta arrives behind me at the window, where I’m deciding if I’ll go over and join her for a bit. He moves some of my hair to the side and exposes my neck, kisses the skin there. “Good morning,” he breathes, still waking up. He stands behind me and rubs his hands down over the small baby bump under my shirt, still so small we haven’t told the kids yet. I wanted to wait until we were sure. This baby was a surprise for Peeta and I, and a happy one to be sure, but at my age you never know how these things will go and I don’t want to get the kids’ hopes up – just in case. “Happy Independence Day.”

“Mmmm.” If my response is lacklustre, it’s not because I want to disrespect the day’s meaning. I think the day is worth recognizing; those that gave their lives for our freedom deserve to be remembered. But I always find today to be a difficult reminder of my past, and every year it gets harder and harder to not explain the reasons why to my children. While both Willow and Rye know that Peeta and I were involved in the revolution, and that I was the Mockingjay (a term which means much less now than it did then), they still don’t understand the gritty details of what happened.

“Go on over,” Peeta says. “I’ll make breakfast and send the kids to get you when it’s ready.”

It will be nice to relax in the early morning air with Pamela, when the heat hasn’t quite yet saturated everything. So I kiss Peeta and leave him to cook for us while I head over to Pamela’s porch and sit with her, listening to little Cory cooing in the shade. “Any plans for today?” she asks while I situate myself on the porch swing.

“We’re taking the kids to the lake for the day – packing a lunch. We never get to go all as a family and I think it’s been over a year since Peeta came with us.”

“That will be nice,” Pamela says, reaching out to bounce Cory a bit. “I wish we could take the kids, but it’s tough with Cory and the twins being so young.”

I smile at her. I can’t imaging lugging six kids – no matter their age – through the roughly kept path to the lake. But the air outside gets so humid and hot that it feels like it will never cool down. A dip in the lake would probably be a blessing for her and a break from the kids’ complaints about the heat. “Maybe when they’re older,” I say, and she shrugs her shoulders.

Pamela and I talk about a few mundane things – how frustrating the new teacher is at the school and how difficult it is to find a meal that will please the whole family. She tells me about her recent difficulties in finding pale yellow yarn, which she had meant to use to make a blanket for Cory now that he is ready to have one in his crib. “I think I might have some,” I tell her. “I was planning to make a scarf for Willow, but you can have it. She decided yellow isn’t her favourite colour anymore.”

“What is it now?”

“Blue.”

“That’s Becky’s favourite colour, too.”

“I know,” I grin at her. There’s something going on there, I think. “Anyways, I’ve got some blue yarn from a sweater I made Rye years ago, so I’m all set. You’re welcome to the yellow if you want it.”

“That would be great. Thank you!”

I look up and see Rye waving at me from the porch. It’s time to eat. “No problem. I’ll drop it off on our way to the lake. Have fun today – try to stay cool.” I bend down to give Cory a kiss on the forehead before jogging back home. Sometimes on mornings like this, I find myself in awe of my life. The fact that I can sit on a porch with a friend and talk about bad teachers and colours of yarn and the best way to convince your kids that green beans are delicious. Rather than talking about war strategy or which leader is trying to destroy me, I get to talk about how to treat diaper rash in the summer heat. It may seem boring to anyone else, but to me, it is a blessing.

Rye waits on the porch until I run up the stairs and then turns to walk inside with me. “Papa made pancakes with bacon _inside_ ,” he tells me, voice full of wonder like Peeta is some magical god. I’m not going to try to dissuade him from that opinion.

“Inside?” I ask, leading the small boy in the house. “How will we eat the bacon then?”

“You just bite into the pancakes, mom,” I can hear him rolling his eyes at me.

The kitchen table is set for all of us, and Peeta is looking sheepishly at me. “Everything okay?” I ask, as I sit down at the table.

“You’re supposed to eat them with your hands,” Peeta says, then taps the knife he is holding on the table. “But that will be messy.”

“Let’s be messy, we can clean up before we go to the lake.” Rye gives a shout of joy – I’m usually the party pooper here, so if I say it’s okay, Rye knows that his father won’t argue. Willow is eating as tidily as she can while still indulging in the childlike joy of being able to dip her pancakes into a small bowl of maple syrup.

“They’re supposed to do a ten year anniversary thing on TV tonight,” Peeta tells me. To our children, this sounds like idle chatter between their parents. Nothing more than “what should I pick up at the vegetable stand today?” Or “when was the last time you cleaned this?” But I know that Peeta means it as a warning. We usually watch President Paylor’s speech as a family because we think it is important for the children to see what their classmates will see, to be able to go to school and talk with their friends about the fireworks that were set off behind the President. But what does the anniversary mean? On the fifth anniversary, they showed some footage of the war. While nothing was gruesome or bloody, Peeta and I were both terrified that seeing our old lives on the screen might cause a flashback for him. Luckily nothing happened, but Peeta said it felt like an episode was close to the surface for an entire week after. With my pregnancy and the children, we can’t risk something like that again.

“Maybe you kids would like to go over to uncle Haymitch’s tonight, to watch the speech?”

Willow fixes me with a very serious stare. “Do you think he’ll be awake?”

“We’ll make sure he is,” I promise.

Peeta’s breakfast is a total hit and the only cost is that everyone has to change out of their syrupy clothes before we leave for the lake. While Rye and Willow are changing, Peeta and I pack a lunch to take with us to the lake. “This part of the day _is_ nice,” he says, wrapping a peanut butter and pickle sandwich for Willow (who is trying a lot of strange new things these days). “There are some things about today that makes it tough, but just getting to spend time with you guys…that’s nice.”

“It is,” I tell him, and I genuinely agree. Usually a Friday morning will find the kids heading off to school, Peeta at work, and me prepping for a day of hunting. I’m not used to getting my family all to myself except for on Sundays, and it’s a treat to have this extra stolen time. I just wish it didn’t come with the quiet fear lurking in the back of my mind. “Do you want to watch the speech over here tonight? I think it would be good to know what the kids are seeing, in case…” I don’t want to say it, don’t want to give credence to the fact that today might be the day our children see what we really looked like when we fought in the rebellion. They know that Peeta and I took part, but it is one thing to be aware of something, and another thing entirely to see it with your own eyes.

“I think we should,” he says, leaning back on the counter to watch me finish packaging up some carrots. “But let’s not talk about it again until then, okay? I just want to enjoy today.” He comes close, putting his hand on my stomach and presses a kiss to my mouth to soften the comment. I lean into the kiss, forgetting the half wrapped carrots on the counter, and raise one hand to cup his jaw. I trace my thumb along the line of his chin, his skin smooth after his recent morning shave (which Peeta almost never forgoes).

“Mom!” Willow says, interrupting the moment abruptly. I lean back and smile at Peeta, who gives me a quick wink before I turn to look at my daughter. I don’t even need to to ask her what she wants. She’s somehow managed to get stuck in her shirt and it’s halfway on, her face lost in the fabric. “Can you please help me?” I struggle not to laugh while I’m getting her out of the fabric, unsure how she managed to get it so twisted and bunched up the way she did. She’s got her bathing suit on underneath, so I just pull it off of her completely so that I can sort it out.

“There you go,” I hand her the top back, untwisted and ready to wear. “Are you two ready to go? The lunch is almost packed.”

“Yes, we’re ready. And you would be, too, if you quit making out.” Peeta laughs out loud from the kitchen.

The walk to the lake never feels long to me. I love the feeling of the leaves on my arms and the long grass against my legs, the sound of the birds in the trees, and the way the wind blows over my face. Willow will sometimes sing so that the mockingjays will echo her and Rye likes to try but (bless him) he has his father’s singing voice. Peeta is good natured about it, even though I know the trek must make him sore – he’s strong but doesn’t often walk much outside of taking the kids to school and walking to and from the bakery. But he carries as much as I do on these walks and doesn’t complain or grumble one bit. He just seems happy, happy to be with his family and enjoying the sunshine.

Once we get to the lake, no matter how short the trip has seemed to me, I know that we’ve been out long enough that everyone needs to put sunscreen on again – especially Peeta and Willow, whose fair skin is more prone to burning that Rye and I. I’m grateful that the kids don’t protest – years ago it was a fight just to get them to be still so I could put it on. Now they both indulge in a game we made up at some point, slathering ridiculously unnecessary amounts of the lotion on their father’s back. It’s wasteful, I know, but they’re having fun and it’s a gift I don’t want to take away from them. Once they’re done, they’ll jump in the lake and I can smooth out the sunscreen on Peeta’s back, wiping the leftover on my own arms. He and I sit on the towel for a moment, watching the kids play.

“I dreamed about this life a lot,” he says thoughtfully, while I rub some of his excess sunscreen up onto his neck. “But there was a time when I didn’t know if it would happen.”

Peeta does this occasionally, gets pensive about our life together. I can understand his feelings and thoughts, because I’ve had a lot of the same ones too. I often find myself wondering what my life would have been like it just _one thing_ had been different. Wondering about how I managed to get so lucky in my older years after struggling so much in my youth. It seems I’m not alone in these meandering thoughts. “Me, too,” I finally tell him, running my hands up and down his arms. “All done.”

Rye is dunking his sister under the water and she is shrieking at him, spraying water as she flails. Peeta gets up and dusts his shorts off. “I guess I should go save her?” I shrug my shoulders but smile and watch as he runs toward the lake. It took a while for him to learn how to swim, but he’s comfortable enough now to wade into the water and disentangle the children. I can’t really hear what he’s saying, but it’s clear he’s not chastising them by the way they all loudly laugh together.

“Mom!” Rye yells at me, gesturing for me to join them. “Come on!”

So I push myself off of the blanket and run towards the water, jumping at the last moment and pulling my legs close to my body so that I drop into the water like a rock, creating a huge splash. When I come up for air, everyone is spluttering and wiping the water out of their eyes. For a moment, there is blinking silence, and then Peeta grabs Rye’s leg, dragging him under the water and the shrieking starts all over again.

After we’ve been at the lake for a while, eaten our lunch and relaxed in the sunshine (well, Peeta and I relaxed, Willow and Rye have been digging in the silt for something) it’s time to return home. We’ll make it back in time for a family supper and then the kids can go over to Haymitch’s to watch the show. I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about tonight for the entire day, but the closer it gets, the harder it is to ignore. I don’t want fear of the unknown to mar this day with my family, but I can’t help but wonder what will happen tonight – will the kids have questions when they come home? Will Peeta and I be able to answer them? I shake the thoughts from my head as we walk back, Willow and I leading the way with Peeta and Rye chatting a few yards behind us.

Though she’s been silent for most of the walk, when we’re almost home, Willow gets my attention. “Mama?”she asks, deliberately not looking at me.

“What is it?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Well, you just got away with two, so I’d say one more is okay.”

“Seriously?” She glares at me – a new development in her facial expressions. I’m not sure if I want to laugh at it or tell her never to make it again. I just shrug my shoulders and wait for her to continue. “How did you know that you loved Papa? Like, when did you figure it out?”

“Oh.” I mull the question over in my mind for a moment. “That’s a tough one. Papa knew that he loved me a long time before I knew that I loved him. I think we had known each other for a few years before I really put it all together in my head.”

“Okay, but _how_ did you know?” she persists.

“Well, it wasn’t a singular revelation, if that’s what you’re asking. I didn’t just wake up one day and realize, ‘Oh, I’m in love with Peeta Mellark.’ It took time. I had to experience a lot of things with him before it really clicked in my brain that your father was the man I loved.”

“Didn’t he do something that made you realize you loved him?”

“He did a lot of things.” I push a branch out of the way. “He did a lot of things that made me think he was too good for me, but it was just him being himself – a selfless, kind, determined person.”

“How old were you when you figured it out?”

“Why are you asking me all of this?” I turn to look at her – not accusatory, just curious. “Do you think you might like someone?”

She blushes – as red as I’ve ever seen her and looks away. “I don’t know,” she finally says, adjusting the straps of her pack. “I think I might, but what if I just like them as a friend and I’m getting confused.”

I think for a moment. I don’t want to confuse my daughter any further than she already is and I definitely don’t want to take away from the fluttery exciting love of youth (which I never experienced but which many people tell me is a critical part of growing up). “You know, honey, there’s a lot of different types of love. There’s family love, like we all have – like what I had for your Aunt Prim. It is so strong that nothing can ever break it. Not years apart, time that passes without talking – nothing breaks that kind of love. Then there’s friendship love – which is rare, but just as powerful.” I swallow thickly, thinking about Gale and the love that I had for him – so strong, but never enough for him or me. “You can love a friend without feeling like you need to marry or kiss them. The way that I’m friends with your Aunt Johanna, or Papa is friends with Aunt Annie.”

“You and Aunt Jo fight all the time.”

I can’t help the laugh that escapes me then. “You’ve got me there. But we always make up because we truly love and care for one another. We fight because we’re…very different people.”

“And then there’s romantic love, like you and Papa have.”

“Mhm.” I think for a moment. “And for a while, we were friends first – before we knew that we loved each other in a different way. We took care of one another, kept each other safe, and looked out for each other. That all came before we got married. If you think you might love someone but you’re not sure, it’s okay to be friends with them for a while first. You don’t have to jump right into romance.”

“Really?” she asks me, and seems genuinely shocked.

“Really.”

“What are you two talking about?” Peeta’s voice echos through the forest and few birds fly out of a tree top.

“Nunya,” Willow shouts back.

“What?” Rye asks.

“Nunya business!”

I can hear Peeta laughing about that for the rest of the way home. When we get home, the kids are sent upstairs to shower off while Peeta and I unpack things. He’s putting the wrappers from our lunch in the basket of laundry when I get his attention. “I think Willow has a crush on Becky.”

“Took you long enough to figure it out.”

“How long have you known?”

“She’s been talking about Becky the same way I used to think about you for at least a year. ‘Papa, did you know Becky likes lilies? Papa, did you know Becky likes to read comic books?’ Becky is on her mind almost 24 hours a day.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Peeta shrugs and closes the cabinet that houses our picnic gear, leaning back against it. “I figured you would figure it out eventually, or she would tell you. Is that what you two were talking about on the way back?”

“Sort of. She asked me when I knew that I was in love with you.” He grins at that and walks towards me, wrapping his arms around me.

“When did you know?” His voice is the sort of growl that means he’s getting turned on. He leans in for a kiss and I return it, but hastily.

“I’m not sure,” I tell him, honestly. “It kind of…developed overtime. I can’t pinpoint a specific moment like some people.”

The showers upstairs stop at almost the same time and so we disentangle ourselves and start working on dinner so we can eat before taking the kids over to Haymitch’s.

That night, while the kids are at Haymitch’s, Peeta and I settle in with no small amount of nerves to watch the Independence Day cast. It starts with a loud rendition of Panem’s new anthem and a picture of a random selection of citizens in front of the new flag. President Paylor is standing at the podium, her hands clasped in front of herself. She looks well put together but tired – she’s been running Panem for a long time and, though she’s called for a number of elections, she is continuously voted into office by a landslide. She opens with a speech about remembering those we’ve lost and taking time to celebrate the gifts they’ve given us. It’s all routine by now, but I can see that’s she’s still trying to put meaning into her words.

Peeta is warm next to me, the heat of the day and also of anxiety radiating from him. He grips my hand tightly and I think of our children at Haymitch’s house, likely watching with eager attention as they wait for the fireworks. The remote control of the TV is on the table and without thinking, I reach out and grab it, shutting the TV off quickly.

“Katniss?”

I turn to Peeta, look at his face which is equal parts scared and confused. He is just as worried, if not more so, as I am about what is going to be on the TV, but it never occurred to him to shut it off and spare himself the misery – likely because I had convinced him that we should watch it. “Everything okay?” he asks, still looking pretty confused.

“We don’t have to watch this,” I tell him. I put my arm on the back of the couch so that my hand rests across his shoulders. “Haymitch will tell us what they saw. We don’t have to watch it to know.”

It seems like something washes over Peeta – likely relief. His shoulders sag a little, released from their tense hold and he blinks slowly, offering me a weak smile. “Thank you,” he says. Then he leans forward to press himself against me, almost like a child, wrapping his arms around me. He situates himself on the couch so that his head can rest on my lap. Unconsciously, my hands go to his hair and he murmurs his appreciation, his own hand tracing patterns on my back. I hadn’t realized just how scared Peeta was until this very moment, and now I feel guilty for spending the whole day with him and not noticing. How could I have known him for so long and not seen it?

I don’t know how long we sit there, offering comfort to each other. It must have been a while, because when the phone rings it jolts me out of what might have been sleep. Peeta is gently snoring so I try to extricate myself from the couch without jostling him too much. When I pick up the phone, Johanna is already talking on the other end. “Shut up, shut up,” she’s saying, but I don’t think it’s to me because it sounds like she’s turned away from the phone.

“Jo?”

“Katniss. Thank the fucking stars. Are you alright?”

“Yes. I’m fine,” I look at Peeta, who is groggily sitting up on the couch, rubbing his face where there is an imprint of my shorts. “What’s wrong? Why wouldn’t I be alright?”

“Did you watch the ceremony?”

“Just the beginning,” I tell her, heart speeding up. “Why, what happened?”

“Thank Jesus.” I can hear her talking to someone else, telling them that Peeta and I didn’t see it.

“Jo, Jo!” I have to work to get her attention back. Peeta is getting up off of the couch and walking over to me now, a concerned look on his face. “What didn’t we see?”

“Fuck, Katniss. Did the kids watch?”

I swallow, wondering what my children may have seen. Peeta stands behind me and wraps his arms around me, offering comfort. I wonder if he can hear what Johanna is saying on the phone. “I think so,” I tell her. “They’re at Haymitch’s house. Jo, you’re scaring me. What did they show?”

“Shit. They showed a video of Peeta throwing that guy into a pod.”

“Mitchell?” I asks, my throat dry. Peeta tenses behind me, his hands tightening slightly around my waist.

“Yeah, I guess so. When he fucking lost it and tried to attack you – remember that?”

“Thanks for letting me know,” I tell her. My voice is wavering, shaky. I don’t know what I’m feeling, what I’m thinking, but I know I have to hang up. “I have to go.”

“Call me later,” she says, but I’m already putting the phone down.

I turn around in Peeta’s arms and look him in the face. His eyes are already watering, but I have to tell him. “Peeta, they showed a clip of you and Mitchell. With the pod.” That incident will probably haunt Peeta for the rest of his life. During the rebellion and on our trek to the centre of the Capitol and in a moment of terror, Peeta attacked me. When Mitchell attempted to pull Peeta off of me, Peeta hurled Mitchell away and right onto an unmarked pod. Mitchell ended up being trapped in a net of barbed wire and was covered with the tar that rushed in to finish the job of killing us. Peeta has always blamed himself for Mitchell’s death even though everyone knew he wasn’t in his right mind. I’m so glad we didn’t watch, but I wonder if just hearing about it could also cause an episode.

“The kids will have seen it,” he says. His jaw is tight and tears are sliding down his face – only two of them.

“I think so,” I say, not wanting to lie but not wanting him to give up hope, either.

“They’ll think I’m a monster,” he says. He snaps his hands away from me and balls them into fists at his sides. I can see that an episode is building and I need to work to stave it off.

“They won’t think you’re a monster,” I tell him, reaching up to touch his face. He flinches at the contact but doesn’t pull away. “They will have said something about the clip when they showed it. And we can explain to the kids what happened. They won’t think that Peeta, they never would.” He blinks at me but doesn’t respond. I am about to say something else when there’s a knock at the door. I’m forced to leave Peeta standing there, stock still, so that I can answer. Haymitch is on the other side, but my children are not with him. He looks concernedly at Peeta and beckons me outside.

Once I’ve closed the door behind me, he says, “The kids are scared to come home.”


	15. ...is not who you are.

Katniss is outside talking to Haymitch and even though she’s closed the door, I know what he’s telling her. He is telling her that now that my children know that I am a murderer – not a person who had to kill to survive as they have been led to believe, but a murderer – they are scared to be around me. What will Katniss say? What will she do? The muscles in my arms and chest are tight, I can feel my heart beating faster, my breath coming in short huffs, my face getting hot. I don’t know if an episode is coming on, but this is the angriest that I think I’ve been in at least the last 15 years, if not my entire life.

Katniss comes back inside and shuts the door behind her. Through the window, I can see Haymitch’s silhouette retreating to his own house. Katniss leans back against the door and smiles sadly at me. I know what she’s going to say and I don’t want to hear it, but I know that I need to. “The kids are going to stay at Haymitch’s for a while longer,” she walks toward me carefully. Now my own wife is scared of me, too. “Just until we can figure things out. How are you feeling?”

“Angry,” I say, unclenching and clenching my fists.

“Okay,” she walks closer to me, now that I am communicating with her, she seems less concerned that I may be in the first stages of an episode. Katniss wraps her arms around me and presses her face to my chest. “Let’s talk more about that. Why are you feeling angry?”

My face heats up again and my heart rate starts to pick up. “Because they showed that video of me…killing…no, murdering Mitchell.”

“You feel like you murdered him?” She knows that I feel that way, but this is how Dr. Aurelias has told us to work through difficult feelings. Talk about them, talk about where they come from, get to the root of the pain and try to see if you can work it out.

“Yes,” I tell her, my jaw tight. “And I feel like the government aired my most shameful memory on TV and my children saw it and now they think I’m a murderer and they’re scared of me.” The words come out in a rush before I can stop them, there it is honey – the sad truth.

Katniss leans back from me. “I think we should sit down.” She takes me to the couch and sits down next to me. “The kids are scared, but not because they think you’re a murderer, Peeta.”

“A monster then,” I say, fisting the fabric of my pants in my hands. I want to hit something, or smash something. I want to get on the train to the Capitol and ask President Paylor what right she has to ruin the small amount of happiness Katniss and I were able to eke out together.

“Not a monster, Peeta. They were scared that seeing it might make you have one of your episodes, if you remembered. I told Haymitch to give me some time to talk to you, so we could make sure that you weren’t going to have a difficult night and then we, or I, would go over and get the kids. They know you’re not a murderer, Peeta.” She runs her fingers through my hair in what I know is meant to be a comforting gesture but it’s difficult not to flinch at the contact. It’s not that I’m scared of Katniss, I don’t feel any sense of the usual episodes that I have. There’s no feeling of fear when I look at her, no sense of terror, no inkling that she is a monster. I am lucid enough to know that the real monster here is me. I flinch away from her touch because I am ashamed and don’t know if I deserve her comfort. But she presses on and runs her hand down my neck, over my shoulder. “They know that wasn’t you,” she insists.

“That was me,” I grit out. I should be relieved that my children’s opinions of me haven’t changed, but there’s a small voice in my head that is saying they just haven’t changed _yet_. “I did that Katniss, I killed Mitchell.”

“And I killed Coin,” she says flatly. I wasn’t expecting that. We don’t talk about that part of out lives very often and sometimes I forget that my wife is the person who assassinated the ascendant President. “We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of, Peeta, but that doesn’t make you a bad person.” She gets up off of the couch and stands in front of me, hands on my shoulders so that I am forced to look at her. “You are a wonderful father, an amazing husband, a caring friend, a terrific baker…Peeta, your kids know how great you are. They trust you and love you. I promise.”

I can’t keep looking at her. I’m ashamed. Ashamed that I got so heated so quickly, ashamed of the man that I was, ashamed that Katniss has to remind me of all the good things I am supposed to be for my family. So I look down at my knees and thank her, lift one hand to run it along the fine peach fuzz on her arm. I want to go and collect my children so that I can look them in the eyes and see that they still love me. That they aren’t terrified or mistrusting or hateful of me. I need that sense of peace before I can find the calm that Katniss is trying to encourage. “Let’s go over to Haymitch’s,” I tell her.

“Are you sure you’re ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” I tell her.

“What do you think we should do about the clip? We need to address that…but somehow, I don’t think Paylor would be particularly open to hearing a complaint from me. She might listen to you.” She is walking to the door to put her shoes on. This feels so surreal to me – like two parts of my life have collided. There is the past, dark and frightening, shameful and hidden, and the present, wonderful and loving, full of joy. And Katniss crosses the threshold of both of them – really the only person who has been there for all of it. Haymitch was around, too, but I certainly wouldn’t label him as “present” for all of those times when he was wasted beyond functioning. No, Katniss is really the only person alive to know all of the parts of me, the good, the bad, and the ugly. And regardless of all that, she is offering me a small grin while she puts on her shoes. If she is able to trust me after everything we have been through, love me after everything I have done, care for me after everything I have been, I am sure that my children will be able to, as well.

“Peeta?” She only sounds a little nervous and I realize I’ve been lost in thought and probably giving her a goofy stare for the last few moments while she has been putting on her shoes.

“Sorry,” I tell her, pushing off of the couch. “Just thinking.”

“About how to deal with Paylor?”

“Not really. No. But I think I’ll give her office a call tomorrow morning and see if I can arrange an appointment to talk with her.”

“That’s probably for the best. Give you some time to cool down and give her some time to come down from the Independence Day high she’s probably on.” I know that was meant to be a joke, so I give Katniss a half chuckle.

We walk over to Haymitch’s where our children are sitting on the front porch, drinking something out of mugs. “There better not be any alcohol in there,” Katniss grumbles.

“What do you think I am?” Haymitch sounds only marginally offended when he snatches the mug out of Willow’s hands and thrusts it under my nose.

“Hot chocolate,” I tell Katniss, and she laughs. It’s not a genuine laugh, but it shows the kids (and me) that everything is going to be okay – they don’t need to worry. The children look half concerned and half excited to see us, like they don’t know what to make of our presence. “Ready to come home?” I finally ask, trying to keep my voice light. I want them to know that they are safe – I’m not going to lose my mind at any moment.

The kids finish their hot chocolate slowly, wanting to squeeze out just a few more minutes of listening to Haymitch talk about their mother as a teenager. He is telling them some story (which I’m pretty sure isn’t true) about how Katniss snuck her sister’s cat into District 13 back when we all lived there. Katniss gets a wistful sort of look, not the same sadness she used to feel when people talked about Prim, but more of a nostalgic grief. I reach over to put my arm around her and pull her towards me. Nights like this are a stark reminder of the fact that, even though we have built this wonderful life together, we are still two broken people with broken pasts.

Finally Haymitch finishes talking about the mustard yellow cat and the kids have finished their drinks. “It’s late,” Katniss says, putting her hands on Rye (who is already more resistant about leaving), “time to go to bed.”

“Did you see the fireworks, mama?” Willow asks as we start to walk away, waving goodby to Haymitch who looks particularly pleased with his babysitting capabilities.

“No, we didn’t watch them. What colours were there?”

“You didn’t watch them?” Rye is shocked. How could anyone knowingly and intentionally miss the amazing spectacle that was the Independence Day fireworks?

“We thought it would be for the best,” I tell him. I’ll leave it at that for now and see if the kids pry any further. When we get home and the kids have brushed their teeth and put on their pyjamas, I am tucking Rye in bed while Katniss talks to Willow.

“Papa?” I wonder if he will asked the questions I have had running through my mind all night. Dread drops in my stomach like a cold wight, but I try to keep my voice steady when I ask him what he needs. “We saw the video clip with you and Mama, when you were younger. The one where you threw a man into a net.”

I wince and swallow, unsure how to respond. When he puts it that way, it really makes it sound like I am the villain here. Which wouldn’t be wrong. “And what did Haymitch have to say about that?” I finally ask.

“He told us that you were sick and that you weren’t yourself. That the old government had messed with your head and that you weren’t making your own decisions. Is that true?”

One day I will tell my children more about what happened, so that they understand what we went through. They deserve to know what happened in the past, how we were involved with the shaping of their present. But that history is frightening and dark, the truth of the depravity of humanity is too much to share with my innocent son just yet, so I take a deep breath and nod. “That’s right. The Capitol at the time was very different than it was today, and they made me very sick on purpose so that I wasn’t myself. I did things then that I would never, ever do on purpose.” It feels like I am turning the horror of my youth into a children’s story for my son.

“You’re not sick like that anymore, are you?” He is snuggling down into the covers, looking at me with trusting eyes. There’s no fear there – he doesn’t think that I’ll harm him, he’s just worried for me.

“No, I’m not. I used to have days when I would feel sick again, but your mom helped me. She helped me get better.”

“Why do you think they showed that on the TV?”

“You know that your mom was very special to the whole country during the rebellion. She was the Mockingjay and everyone looked to her for hope and strength. I think they showed that video because it was a moment when she showed how strong she was – it’s a reminder to everyone of what they felt back then.” I feel warmth as I tell him this, remembering how much strength Katniss gave to the nation, to all of the people who wanted to fight but weren’t sure they could. It is easier, now, to look back and recognize how much she meant to them.

At some point during our conversation, Katniss walked into Rye’s room. She is standing in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. “It’s time for sleep,” she says when there’s a lull in the conversation. “Ready?”

Rye nods and I get up so that she can talk to him while I head over to say goodnight to Willow. It’s a routine we’ve cultivated – taking turns saying goodnight to the kids. It gives us each an opportunity to be with them one on one and it’s my favourite way to end the day after I’ve been at work and away from my family. Willow is getting old enough that she might want to stop this practice soon, and we’re soaking up every moment that we can with her.

When I walk into her bedroom, she’s standing over by the window. She’s wearing a pair of pyjamas that Annie sent her, yellow with blue starfish all over them, and Katniss has put her hair into two braids. She looks far younger than her 12 years. I don’t say anything, but she turns when I step on a creaky spot on the floor. “Hey, Papa,” she says, her voice quiet and gentle, like she’s scared I’m fragile and might break. She walks toward me and opens her arms for a hug, pressing against me. “That was scary,” she tells me, her voice muffled by my shirt.

“Yeah,” I breathe, petting the top of her head. I feel less like I need to comfort her and more like we are commiserating. She’s only two years older than her brother, but sometimes their age difference is so obvious. She doesn’t need to tell me what was scary because the whole night has been – ever since we got that call from Jo, I feel like I’ve been in constant fight or flight mode. It’s like being here with her, finally knowing that both of my children haven’t completely fallen victim to the idea of my villainy (at least outwardly), it’s giving my mind the chance to calm down somewhat.

Then Willow pulls back, and asks a question that makes my heart pound again. I don’t think she means to unsettle me so, but when she asks, “Is that was you’re like when you have an episode?” it makes me reconsider my perception that my children don’t think I’m a monster.

“No,” I tell her. Perhaps a little too forcefully, because she pulls away from me to lean against the window sill once more. “No, I’m not like that anymore. Ever. I was very sick in that video. I’m better now.” How do you explain the mental collapse caused by torture and subsequent patchwork mental regrowth to a child? “When I have…an episode, I forget what’s real and what’s not real. But I’m not like I was in the video.” Though she does have me thinking. I have been dangerous before – not for years, not since the kids have been born. My episodes now usually consist of separating myself in a different room for a few hours and talking myself through my family’s history, which is enough to bring me back to reality. But before Willow’s birth, throughout my many episodes I gave Katniss enough bruises to make outsiders think the worst and I even fractured her wrist once. Of course, what I’ve done to Katniss in the past _isn’t_ as bad as what I did to Mitchell, but it’s been a long time since I’ve thought about just how dangerous I was for my wife.

Willow crawls into bed and gets under the blankets. She runs her hand over the patterned stitching at the top of the blanket and looks up at me, her eyes small and serious. “Mama wouldn’t have had kids with you if you were still dangerous, right?” The words are like a punch to the gut. The peace I felt only moments ago, embracing my daughter, rushes out of me. Willow no longer trusts me at all – instead, it is based on her mother’s judgement that she will determine if I am reliable any longer. My daughter, with whom I have always felt a kindred connection, suddenly distrusts me more than I ever thought she could. I swallow thickly, feeling shame, heartbreak, embarrassment, and, most vividly, anger. Anger at the President and the marketing team who decided to use that shot without even _warning_ me, anger at myself for ever thinking I could have a “normal” life. But I have to answer Willow’s question, have to make her feel safe enough to sleep down the hall from her apparently explosive father.

So I sit on the bed next to her and pick up one of her braids, tracing the pattern of her hair. “No, Mama and I wouldn’t have decided to have children if we didn’t feel we could provide a safe home for them. We would never do anything to put your or your brother in harm’s way.” She snuggles down into her blanket, worries apparently assuaged (for now) and breathes a quiet sigh. “We would never let anyone hurt you,” I tell her, feeling more capable of keeping that promise to her than my parents were to me.

Willow reaches her little hand out from under the blanket and grips mine for a moment. “I love you,” she tells me, squeezing my hand before letting go.

“I love you, too, baby.” She hates that nickname now, thinks she’s too old for it. But she lets it slide and doesn’t say anything while I bend over to kiss her cheek. She’s breathing evenly by the time I make my way to the door and shut off the light.

Katniss is standing in the hallway, frowning sadly at me. I’m not sure how much of the conversation she heard, but it’s clear she knows I’m hurt by my chat with Willow. “It _will_ get better,” she tells me. She steps towards me and puts her hands on my arms, but I surge forward for a hug. It’s not often that I feel the need for comfort, but whenever I do, Katniss has always been in my corner. I press my face into the warm skin of her neck and let out a shaky sigh, crushing her body against mine. “Peeta,” she murmurs, rubbing her hands up and down my back. “It’s gonna be okay.”

I pull back and wipe at my face – no tears, but it’s hot and I need to get out of the hallway so that Willow doesn’t hear us talking. Knowing Rye, he’s out like a light already and it doesn’t matter. “Let’s go to bed,” I say.

Katniss leads the way and closes our door for a little privacy. “She trusts you,” she says, almost as soon as the door is shut. “She trusts your decision making and trusts that she’s safe with you. This is just a new part of you that they need to digest.” I walk towards the window, a replica of what my daughter was doing only a short time ago. Looking outside, the stars are dim tonight – maybe hidden by the fog of fireworks from nearby or low cloud cover. My hands grip the windowsill tightly and I’m surprised, for a moment, that I’m not angrier.

Katniss comes up behind me and wraps her arms around me, hands tight across my chest. “Peeta, our kids have always seen you as their loving, goofy father.” I can feel her jaw moving against my back as she talks. “Now, they have to reconcile that with the fact that you are strong enough to throw someone across a room. That’s not a part of you they ever really thought about. They know you’re strong, they’ve seen it. But never in a violent fashion. It’s a new piece of you that they didn’t know existed before today. It will take time. It doesn’t mean they don’t trust you.”

What Katniss is saying makes sense in a sort of distant way, but it’s still hard for me to take in. Going so quickly from my children’s protector to someone who could harm them (or their mother) in their minds is a difficult position to be in. I turn to face Katniss and blink a few times. “I don’t know how I adjust to this, though.”

She steps away from me and goes to sit on the bed. It looks like she’s thinking and she must be, because she takes a while to say anything. Then she looks at me, like she’s going to apologize for something. “Peeta, when I saw you do that to Mitchell, it took me some time to get back to a place where I felt like I knew you again. And before that, I had trusted you in some of the most life threatening situations. I _ached_ for you when I was in District 13 and you were being held by the Capitol. But when I saw the violence you were capable of, I wasn’t sure who you were any more. I had to see you again as the Peeta I had always known and trusted before I could accept that strange and new part of you.”

When all of that had been happening, the trip to the Capitol, the fire bombs, Katniss’ incarceration, there hadn’t really been the opportunity or moment to talk about our relationship. I never knew that Katniss, too, had been fighting some sense of disturbance about me. We both had such difficult roads back then. It feels like another punch to the gut to know it now. I sink to a squat next to the dresser and put my hands on my head.

“Peeta?” She is concerned that I’m going to have an episode, but I don’t think I am. I just feel like my world is spinning off of its axis and I don’t know how to hold everything together.

“How did you ever trust me again?” I ask my knees because I can’t bear to look at her right now.

“I always trusted _you_. I mean, not always, there was that time when I thought you and the careers were out to get me. But that was totally different.” She lets out a little chuckle. “Peeta, it’s not about not trusting you, it’s just about recognizing that there’s a part of you that we didn’t know. A part that we still need to get to know.” I feel her hand on my back, smoothing over the tense muscle there. “I promise, it’s going to be okay. It’s just gonna take some time.”

I finally look up at her, want to grab onto her and hold on for dear life. I feel like I am so lost in this sea of emotions and she’s the only thing that’s making sense right now. I have to pull myself together – for my family’s sake. My kids need to wake up tomorrow and see that I am the same person they always knew, that nothing has really changed. Katniss’ hand moves from my back to my face, and I lean into the warmth of her hand on my jaw. “Thank you,” I tell her. The emotions are still sour in my stomach, the hurt is still pounding at my heart, but at least she has given me hope that the kids will trust me again. If Katniss could do it, I am sure that they can.

“Let’s get some sleep, this will all look better in the morning. And we can make that appointment with Paylor, too.”

I nod, turn my face to kiss her palm, and then shakily get up off of the floor. I’m worried it’s going to be a restless night, but once we climb into bed, I am out like a light.

The next morning, I am meant to be up bright an early to go to the bakery. But after last night’s events, I must have been more exhausted than I thought because rather than waking up around 4am like I usually do, I am woken by a child poking me in the face.

“Papa? Get up. Wake up. Hey, get up.” Each sentence is punctuated by another prod. I open my eyes slowly and blink at them - Rye and Willow are both still in their pyjamas, standing beside the bed and smiling down at me.

“Mama made breakfast.” It is far later than it should be.

“What time is it?” I ask, still finding my voice.

Rye shrugs his shoulders and Willow says, “Time to get up!”

So I tell them I’m getting up and they scuttle out of the room to leave me to actually wake up and get out of bed. When I make my way downstairs, Katniss is at the dining room table standing over breakfast that, while not as much fun as my bacon-in-a-pancake experiment, certainly looks delicious. “What’s this about?” I ask her.

“I called the bakery,” she says, sitting down across from me. “You’re not going into work today. We needed one more day together.”

“As a family!” Rye chimes in, nudging my shoulder.

It’s not like Katniss to make a decision like that without asking me, but I recognize her intent to help when I see it. She let me sleep in so that I would be well rested, and now she is giving me one more day to spend with my children, to see that they still love and trust me. She knows that I would have refused if she had offered – too scared to be present so soon after everything that happened last night, so she just made it happen. She’s giving me this gift so that I don’t have to go on wondering.

Just like nothing ever changed, just like everything is the same, Willow turns to me while scooping an ungodly amount of eggs onto her plate. “Will you take me to the music store today? I want to learn how to play the guitar.”

“Isn’t that Becky’s favourite instrument?” I ask, and Willow gives me her new patent glare in place of a response.


	16. And so we go, quietly, into the night.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is short, but I feel it closes out the story nicely - hopefully you do, too! I am so grateful that you joined me on this journey with Katniss, Peeta, et al. Thank you for all of the kind comments, kudos, and love. See you in the next story! :)

It’s about 2 am when a crying baby wakes me from sleep. Peeta’s arm is over my stomach, his hand fisted lightly in the fabric of my sleep shirt. He’s snoring quietly, facing towards me as he slumbers. I can hear Ash down the hall, her tears loud enough to be heard even without the baby monitor that is on Peeta’s side of the bed. Tonight, it’s his turn to take care of Ash, but he must be dead asleep because he hasn’t even shifted since I’ve woken. I could shake him awake, but since I’m already up, I push myself out of bed and throw on a sweater. Peeta’s arm drops onto the empty spot I left on the bed, but otherwise he doesn’t seem to register my absence.

As I’m leaving our room, closing the door quietly so as not to wake those who _can_ sleep through my baby girl’s tears, I hear Ash’s crying start to quiet. As a baby that loves to be with others, it’s not often that Ash can calm herself once she starts crying, so it’s likely that one of my other children is comforting her. When I finally make my way to her room, I find Willow holding my infant child in her arms, standing by the window and looking out at the moonlight. “Hi, Mama,” Willow says, not turning around to look at me.

“Hey you, did your sister wake you up?”

Willow shakes her head, her hair catching the light from outside. “I was already awake.” Ash coos quietly in her arms and I see a small hand reach up to stick a finger in Willow’s nostril. “I thought I would come and hold her since it seemed like Papa wasn’t waking up.”

I stifle a yawn and smile. “I think she’s probably hungry.” Willow steps away from the window and walks towards me. “If she’s not wet?”

Willow shakes her head. “I checked.” She holds her sister out to me and walks past me. “Goodnight, Mama,”

“Hey,” I say, reaching out to touch her shoulder. “Hold on a minute, can you stay and talk? Why were you up?” I settle into the rocking chair and adjust my sleep shirt so that Ash can latch on. She starts suckling immediately, so it’s clear that she was hungry. Willow goes back to lean against the window, but faces into the room this time.

“I don’t know. I was thinking.”

“What about?”

Ash plays with the end of her braid and avoids looking at my face. She shrugs minutely and finally speaks, ever so quietly over the sound of her sister eating. “Stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?” I push, but gently. It’s not like Willow to be so obtuse and I’m getting worried that something serious is going on. “Is everything okay?”

“I think so, it’s just…I have my first date with Becky tomorrow.”

I want to laugh with relief, but that will embarrass Willow, and likely send her running out of the room. So instead, I let out a long, low sigh and tap my finger on Ash’s little back. “Are you worried about that?”

“What if everything goes wrong? I planned the date. What if she doesn’t like what I have planned?”

“What do you have planned?”

“There’s that traditional Covey style cover band playing a concert tonight. I was going to take her to the show and then go for a walk after.”

“That sounds like a lovely date,” I say, adjusting Ash’s weight so that I can sit more comfortably. “Why are you worried about that?”

“What if she doesn’t think it’s romantic enough?”

I think for a moment. “Honey, you’ve known Becky for pretty much your entire life. You know what she likes and what she doesn’t. Is she after romance? Or does she just want to be with you?”

“I don’t know!” Willow’s voice goes a little high pitched for a moment and then she seems to catch herself. She fists her hands by her sides (so much like Peeta in so many ways) and then lets out a sigh. “I think that’s part of the problem – I want this to be different than something we would normally do as friends. I want her to see me as a girlfriend, now. You know?”

While I have not been able to relate to many of my daughter’s childhood concerns regarding young romance, I can absolutely understand the confusion of shifting from friendship to romance – Peeta and I walked that line for a long time. So I nod my head slowly and wait for her to add more to her thought.

“How do I make this special?”

I try to think back on how Peeta and I made our budding relationship special when we came back to District 12 and started anew. What did we do? I remember he picked me flowers once, and took me on a “date” to his house for dinner. He also painted me a few pictures that are now hanging on the walls of our house, scenic vistas and picturesque landscapes of the woods. One painting of a couple on a beach that is small enough to fit in my nightstand drawer and is just for me to see. One time he tried his hand as a chocolatier and made me chocolate covered caramels shaped like hearts (it was harder than he thought so they were delicious but hideous). Peeta was always the “romancer” in our relationship, so I don’t know how much help I will be to my daughter in this situation, but it’s clear that she’s desperate if she’s asking _me_ for help. “You need to find a way to show her that you love her in a new way. Your father used to do things for me as a romantic partner that he never did when we were friends. Made me things, tried new ways to impress me. What about taking some flowers over before your date?”

Willow crosses her arms across her chest. “She has hay fever, mom.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Okay, so that’s a no, then. What if you and your dad bake something for you to take over?”

“Something different than the six cinnamon rolls I’ve been taking to her every Saturday for years?”

She’s got me there. I’m not sure what she can to separate out tonight’s outing from the many other interactions that they have had. “Maybe you need to ask your dad? He’s always been better at this kind of stuff than I have.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Romance. Showing that you love someone.” Then I have a thought. I remember how Peeta held my hand when we were going through the difficult Victory Tour. How we brought comfort to one another on the train and just being able to be so physically close to someone outside of my family made me feel loved in a different way than I ever had before. “Why don’t you hold her hand?” I ask. Ash has nursed her fill and has fallen asleep under my shirt. I gently extricate her and lay her back down in her crib while Willow thinks about what I’ve suggested.

“Hold her hand?”

“Yes,” I murmur, leading Willow out of Ash’s room so that I can close the door. “That way, she’ll know it’s special. It’s different. It means something.”

Willow thinks for a moment, twisting her hands as we walk down the hall to her bedroom. “That could work, Mama. Do you think it would be enough?”

I lead her into her room – her rumpled bed covers the only sign of life in her otherwise pristine living space (which is a stark contrast to Rye’s mess of a room). “I think it would be a good start until you and your father can think of some other ideas.” I kiss her on the forehead and turn to leave. “Now get some sleep or you’ll be exhausted during your date.” Willow hums in assent and crawls into her bed, tugging the covers up to her chin. It doesn’t mater that’s she’s fifteen – laying there with her small face sticking out, she looks just like the toddler that I used to tuck into bed with songs about a meadow. I can’t stop myself from reaching out to smooth my hand over the crown of her head. “Love you, baby.”

“Love you, too.”

When I get back to our bedroom, Peeta has rolled over on his side to that he is facing my half of the bed. “Hey,” he grumbles, still half asleep. “Wasn’t it my night?”

“You slept right through the whole thing,” I whisper, getting in bed and situating myself in his arms. “Besides, she was hungry. Not much you could do.” He pushes his hands up under my shirt, not trying to instigate anything, but simply seeking close contact. His leg tangles between mine and his breath is warm on my forehead when I lean into his chest.

“How long have you been up?” His words are slurred as he falls back to sleep, but I think that’s what he said.

“A while.” I move my leg back and forth between his. Thinking about all of the loving things that Peeta did for me throughout our relationship has created a heat low in my belly. I didn’t plan to wake him, but now that he’s up (sort of), I wonder if I can convince him to do more than just cuddle. I press my chest into his for a moment and then trail my hands across his shoulders. He groans. He thinks I’m just trying to make him feel good – I will have to be more straightforward if I’m going to have any luck tonight. “Willow was asking about how to make tonight feel romantic, how to make it special.”

“What’d you say?” He grumbles a bit. He’s falling back asleep, which is the opposite of what my efforts were intended to do. So I decide to me blatant and run my hand down his breastbone, across his abdomen, and under the waistband of his boxers. He opens one eye slightly and looks at me.

“I told her about some of the things you did when we were younger. When you were trying to woo me.”

“Woo you?”

“Don’t mock me,” I tell him. I push my hand further into his underwear. “Can I?” I ask, before starting anything.

“I can never say no to you,” he murmurs, waking up more fully now. He rolls onto his back and shimmies out of his shorts to give me better access. But doesn’t let me continue my ministrations until I pull off my shirt, too. It’s best to give Peeta access to my breasts right after nursing, otherwise they can be quite sore. So this is the perfect time to let him reach up and cup one, trailing his thumb over the tip.

“I remembered how you brought me comfort on the train, during the Victory Tour. You were showing me, even then. How much you loved me.”

“It’s always been hard to hide,” he whispers. His eyes are closed, but he pulls me down for a kiss as I continue to move my hand on him.

“It made me want you,” I tell him, my mouth against his chin. He reaches down to push my underwear off, but it doesn’t get much further than my knees so I have to shift around a bit get them off completely. “Are you too tired?”

“You’re gonna have to do most of the work,” he tells me, but he does pull me onto his waist so that I can situate myself over him. Peeta and I have made many different types of love in this bed. Young and nervous, bumping each other in all of the wrong places, fumbling and finishing too fast. Then later, more experienced but still eager and adventurous, seeking new sensations together with more confidence and less embarrassment. And then when we wanted a baby (and another), working together and struggling to conceive. Every style of lovemaking has been enjoyable, but this may be my favourite. We know each other’s bodies, each other’s wants. We feel comfortable, confident, secure with one another. Peeta’s hands are resting gently on my thighs, tracing over the new stretch marks from my pregnancy with Ash. I gained more weight with her than with either of the other two, likely because of my age. But Peeta doesn’t seem to mind the extra weight on top of him – staying hard enough for me to settle on and start shifting back and forth.

“This is my favourite,” I tell him, not really thinking about what I’m saying, but wanting to share with him some of the thoughts that are going through my head. One of his hands moves up to my rib cage, dancing across the sensitive skin on the underside of my breast.

“What is?”

“This, with you. Out of all the ways we’ve made love,” I have to pause my sentence as Peeta lifts his hips and wave of pleasure spikes through me. He moves his hand from under my breast to between my legs and deftly recreates the feeling with his thumb. “This way is my favourite.”

“Half asleep?”

I laugh quietly. “Comfortable. Safe. Secure.” I move one of my hands to his face, brush the blond hair away from his eyes, and trace an eyebrow. “Just…enjoying you.” His eyes are still closed, but he finally opens them, then.

“I enjoy you, too,” he says, his thumb moving fast between my legs. “I think I love all the times we’ve had sex,” he tells me. “Except for maybe the time you threw up after.”

I can’t help but laugh again, trying to keep quiet enough that I don’t wake Willow after she’s just gone back to bed. “I was pregnant, it was morning sickness. It had nothing to do with you.”

He shrugs a little, and shifts his hips again in a way he knows I will like. “That’s what you say, but I can’t help but wonder.” But he’s smiling genuinely, now, so I know the comment is without ire.

I’m almost done and so is he. We’re both tired and so we’re done more quickly than we might otherwise be, but as I roll over onto my back to fall back to sleep, Peeta still takes the time to use my shirt and clean us up. “This is the kind of stuff,” I tell him, my eyes drifting shut. Now I am the one who’s speech is slurred. Peeta pulls the blanket back over us, neither of us bothering to get dressed. Soon, Ash will be up and walking and we’ll have to go back to our cautionary lives, but for now, we have some privacy.

“What kind of stuff?” Peeta asks. He sounds mildly confused.

“The kind of stuff you do that shows me that you love me.” My words don’t sound like real English anymore, but if Peeta is still confused, he doesn’t say anything. I’m asleep in moments.


End file.
